
QassIPKSBSa- 



Book 



n2^-l 



lI.l).(ViljH 



LETTERS 






OF THE LATE 



LORD LITTELTON 



riJIIlD AMERICAA^ EDITION. 



PHILADELPHIA: 



LISHED BY UICKSIAN 8c HAZZATID, NO. 12 L 
l^S^VT STREKT; AND HAZZATin & lHCK.r*IA.>% 



P£Ti:USQURG, VA. 



182/, 



WASW 




71? 3^ f 



r 



INTRODUCTION. 



There is no species of publication which 
seems to be more agreeably received than 
that, which illustrates the cliaracters of men 
distinguished for their abilities, venerable for 
their erudition, and admired for their virtues. 
The political history of great men is useful and 
necessary to many, but the domestic history of 
all men is useful and necessary to all. 

Among the materials from whence the bi- 
ographer forms the volume of domestic charac- 
ters, private letters are considered as the most 
valuable, because they are the most unequivo- 
cal authorities of real sentiment and opinion. 
Conversation is too fugitive to be remembered; 
public declarations may be oftentimes sus- 
pected; but the epistolary communications of 
friendship may be depended upon as faithful 
to the mind from whence they arise. The 
following letters, therefore, as proceeding from 
a nobleman, whose great talents promised no 
small utility to his country, and whose charac- 
ter has been the subject of such general specu- 



IV INTRODUCTION. 

lation, will, without doubt, meet with a favour- 
able reception. 

That tliey were not written with the most 
distant idea of being offered to the world, will, 
be evident to every reader; and, surely, no in- 
considerable share of merit will be allowed 
them from such a circumstance. They may 
want perhaps the correctness and accuracy of 
prepared compositions; but they possess that 
easy sincerity, and that open unbosoming of 
sentiments, which form the charm of episto- 
lary correspondence. 

Some liberties have been taken with the 
letters at large, by omitting such as alluded to 
transactions which the world already too well 
knows, or which it would be shameful to betray. 
But no alteration has been made in any indivi- 
dual letter, except an occasional retrenchment 
of expressions, which, however common in 
fashionable life, or unobserved in fashionable 
conversation, would not justify their being 
condensed into print, and might give cause of 
offence to the scrupulous reader. 

There may be also some irregularity in the 
disposition of the letters; the thirteenth, and 
the last, should have an earlier place ; but they 



INTRODUCTION. V 

were already numerically arranged; and, as 
a precise order does not seem to be material, 
no alteration of this kind has been attempted, 
which, after all, must have been made upon 
conjecture. 

As these letters were, in general, without 
any dates, and not one of them marked with 
that of the year, it was thought proper to omit 
them throughout. The thirtieth letter, which 
appears to have been written the last of the 
collection, bears, in the manuscript copy, a 
conjectural date of the summer of 1775. As 
it was a matter of particular request, it was 
thought prudent to suppress the names of those 
persons to whom these letters were addressed; 
though it is rather natural to suppose, that 
every reader, who has lived in the world, will 
form very probable conjectures of them, with- 
out any great exercise of thought or power of 
divination. 



LETTERS, &c. 



LETTER r. 



MS. DEAH FIlIE3n), 

You do me great injustice; I receive 5'our 
letters with tlie greatest pleasure; and I gave 
your last the usual welcome, though every line 
was big with reproaches to me. I feel myself 
greatly mortified that you should have a sus. 
picion of any neglect on my part. When I cease 
to answer your addresses, you will be justified 
in supposing me careless about them; till then, 
you will, I hope, do me the justice, as far at 
least as relates to yourself, to think well of me- 
I very sensibly feel the advantage of your good 
opinion, and tlie loss of it would greatly affect 
me. You may be assured that my insensibility 
to reputation is not such as some part of my 
conduct may have given you reason to believe; 
for, after all his blustering and looking big, 
the heart of the worst man caimot be at ease, 
when he forces a look of contempt towards the 
ill opinion of mankind. In spite of all his bra- 



vadoes, he is an hypocrite twelve hours out of 
the four and nventy; and hypocrisy, as it is 
well said, is ihe honnage which Vice pays to 
Virtue; unwillingly, I confess; but still she is 
forced to pay it. 

I will most frankly acknowledge to you, that 
I have been as well disposed to turn my back 
upon the good opinion of the world as any one 
in it; and that I have sometimes accomplished 
this important business without confusion of 
face, but never without confusion of heart. On 
a late very mortifying occasion, it was not in 
my power to possess myself either with one 
or the other. At a public and very numerous 
meeting in the county whei-e my father lives, 
where great part of his property lies, where 
his inlluence is considerable, and his name re- 
spectable, Iwas not only deserted, but avoided; 
and the women could not have discovered 
more horror on my approaching them, if I had 
been Tarquin himself I found myself alone in 
the crowd, and which is ashad, alone out ofthe 
crowd. I passed the evening without con^.pany; 
and two or three such evenings would either 
have driveii me to despair, or have reformed 
me, T was then convinced, as 1 always am when 
I write to you, that there is some particle 
of good still remaining in me; but I flew from 
that solitary scene which gave such a convic- 



lion, to renew that dissolute intemperance 
which would destroy it. 

It is a great misfortune, that vice, be it what 
it may, will find some one or other to flatter it; 
and that there should be assemblies of people, 
where, when public and honourable society 
has hissed you from the stage, you may find, 
not only reception but applause — little earthly 
pandemon turns, where you meet with every 
means to hush the pains of reflection, and to 
guard against the intrusions of conscience. It 
requires a most gigantic resolution to suffer 
pain, when passion quickens every sense, and 
every enticing object beckons to enjoyment. 
I was not born a Stoic, nor am I made to be a 
martyr! So much do I hate and detest pain, 
that I think all good must be dear that is to be 
purchased with it. Penitence is a rack where 
ofTences have been grievous. To sit alone and 
court Reflection, v/hich will come perhaps, 
every moment, with a swinging sin at her back, 
and to be humble and patient beneath the 
stripes of such a scourge; by heavens, it is not 
in human nature to bear it ! I am sure, at least, 
it is not in mine. — If I could go to confession, 
like a good papist, and have the score wiped 
off at onee, a la bonne heure! But to repent like 
a sobbing paralytic presbyterian, will not do for 
me ; I am not fat enough to repent that way, 
A 2 



10 



George Bodens may be qualified for such a sys- 
tem of contrition; but my skinny shape will not 
bear mortification ; and if I were to attempt 
the subdual of my carnal lust by fasting and 
prayer, I should be soon fasted and prayed 
into the family vault, and disappoint the worms 
of their meals. 

I have had, as vgu well know, some serious 
conversations with my father upon the subject; 
and one evening he concluded a christian lec- 
ture of a most unchristian length, by recom- 
mending me to address Heaven to have mercy 
upon me, and to join my prayers to his con- 
stant and paternal ones for my reformation. 
These expressions, with his preceding coun- 
sels, and his affecting delivery of them, had 
such an effect upon me, that, like the king in 
Hamlet, I had bent the stubborn sinews of my 
knees when it occurred to me that my devo- 
tions might be seen through the key-hole. 
This drew me from my pious attitude; and, 
having secured this aperture, so unfriendly to 
secret deeds, I thought it would not be an use- 
less precaution to let down the window-cur- 
tains also; and, during the performance of that 
ceremony, some lively music which struck up 
in the street caught my attention, and gave a 
sudden flirt to all my devout ideas, so I girded 
onmy sword, and went to the Little Theatre in 



11 



the Haymarket, where Mrs. Cole and the Reve- 
rend Dr. Squintuin soon put me out of humour 
with praying, and into humour with mjself. 

I really began this letter in very sober seri- 
ousness; and, though I have strayed from my 
grave airs into something that wears a ludi- 
crous appearance, 1 beg of you not to give up 
all hopes of my amendment. If there were but 
half a dozen people in the world who would 
afford me that kind encouragement I receive 
from you, it would I verily believe, work a re- 
formation in the prodigal ; but the world has 
marked me down for so much dissoluteness, as 
to doubt, at all times, of the sincerity of my re- 
pentance. — — has already told me, more than 
once, that I am got so deep into the mud as to 
make it highly improbable that I should ever 
get out; that I am too bad ever to be good ; and 
that my future lot is either to be an open vil- 
lain, or an undeceiving hypocrite. Pretty en- 
couragement truly! Lady If untingdon would tell 
me another story: but, however that may be, I 
shall never give myself up for lost, while I re- 
tain a sense of your merit, and a value for your 
friendship. — With these sentiments I take my 
leave, and beg of you to be assured that I am 
most sincerely 

Yours, Sec, 



12 



LETTER II. 

So — — — — turns up his eyes, and signifi- 
cantly shrugs his shoulders, when my name is 
mentioned ; and, to continue the farce, pre- 
tends to lament me as a disgrace to his family! 
J am almost ashamed to acknowledge it, but 
this idle history has given me a more stinging 
mortification than I almost ever felt. How in- 
significant must he become, who is openly 
despised by insignificance! and how loud must 
the hiss of the world be, when such a puny 
whipster insults me! If honourable men were 
to speak of me with contempt, I should sub- 
mit without resentment; for I have deserved it. 
If they should bestow their pity upon me, I 
should thank them for giving me more than I 
deserve. If mankind despise, I have ©nly to 
resist, or fly from the contempt; but to be an 
object of supercilious airs, from one who, two 
years ago, would have wiped the dust from oflT 
my shoes, and who, perhaps, two years hence, 
will be proud of the same office — a puny 
prattler, who does not possess a sufficient de- 
gree of talent or importance to give dignity 
either to virtue or crime — I say, to be the butt 
of such a one severely mortifies me. Were I 
on the other side of the water, his back-biting 
looks and shrugs should be changed in a mo- 



13 

ment to well-made bows and suppliant pos- 
tures. If I live, the scurvy knave shall do me 
homage ! It really frets me, that I cannot, in 
four and twenty hours, meet him face to face, 
and make his subservient attentions give the 
lie to his humbling compassion, in the presence 
of those before whom he has traduced me. The 
day of my revenge will come, when he shall 
open his mouth for me to spit in it, as he was 
wont to do, and perform every dirty trick for 
which parasites were formed. His genius is to 
fetch and carry; a very spaniel, made to fawn 
and eat your leavings; whose whole courage 
rises no higher than to ape a snarl. If I live to 
outlive this sniffling pedagogue, I shall see him 
make a foolish end of it. Mark my words — I 
am a very Shy lock — I will have Revenge ! 
The last word I have written puts me in 

mind of telling you that has been 

with me for some time. The rascal, who is a 
priest into the bargain, carried aqua fortis in a 
syringe for three months together, to squirt 
the fiery liquor into the eyes of a fortunate 
rival. In this diabolical design he succeeded, 
and the object of his malice was for ever de- 
prived of half his sight. I have conversed with 
him on the horrors of this transaction; but the 
Italian finds a consolation in his own infernal 
fedings, and a justification in the dying com- 



14 

mand of his father, whose last words composed 
this empliatic sentence — •' Remember y my son, 
that Revenge is svieetP* 

This man is capable of any villainy, if money 
is to be got by it; and I doubt not but he might 
be bribed to undertake, without hesitation, 
robbery, seduction, rape, and murder. How- 
ever, my superior virtue for once overawed his 
villainy; for he most certainly had it in his 
power to have robbed me of a large sum of 
money, without the possibility of a discovery; 
and, if he thought it necessary, he might have 
dispatched me with as little danger. I have 
since asked him what strange fit of virtue, or 
fear of the devil, came across him, when he 
had such an opportunity to make his fortune? 
The impudent rascal repUed, at once, that he 
had very powerful suggestions to send me to 
the other world; and that, if, fortunately for 
him, I had possessed one single virtue, he 
should, without ceremony, have dispatched me 
to my reward. This event, I think, will make a 
complete Mandevillian of me. You see, for 
your encouragement, that a bad life is good for 
something ; and for the good example which 
the world will receive from me in times to 
come, it will be indebted to the very bad one 
I have already given it, — After this signal and 
providential preservation, I cannot but think 



15 



that Heaven has something particularly great 
in store for me. 

As I tell it you, this history has the air of a 
badinage: but you may be assured that it is a 
real fact, and I am sorry that the circumstances 
of it are too long and various to be inserted in 
a letter. I believe you know something of the 
man; but, if you repeat what I liave written to 
any one who is acquainted with him, you will 
soon find that I have had a very narrow escape. 
1 have bribed him to leave me, and lie is gone 
for Engla7id. The story of Leivis the Fourteenth 
and his barber is well known ; and you may, 
if you please, apply it to 

Your affectionate, he. 



LETTER III. 

:\iY di:aii friend, 

Youu letter, which I received no longer 
ago than yesterday, would do honour to the 
most celebrated name among the moral writers 
of any period. It is the most sensible, easy, 
and concise history of the Passions I have ever 
read. Indeed, it has not been my lot to have 
given any great portion of my time to such 
studies. These powers have kept me too 
much in the sphere of their own tumultuous 



16 

whirlvvintls, to leave me the leisure of examine 
ing them. I have been, am, and I fear shall be^ 
their sport and their slave ; and when I shall 
acquire that serenity of character which will 
enableme to examine them with aphilosophical 
scrutiny, t cannot tell. My expectations are at 
such a distance upon this point, that I am al- 
most ashamed to mention my apprehensions to 
you. It is, however, treating you with the con- 
fidence you deserve, to tell you, that from my 
soul I think the very source of them must be 
dried up before they will lose their empire 
over me. In the lively expression of the poet, 
" they are the elements of life," without which 
man would be a mass of insensible and unin- 
telligent matter. Now, it is that happy com- 
pound of these elementary particles of intel^ 
lectual life, that you so well describe, so tho- 
roughly understand, and so happily possess, 
which I despair of attaining. I have the reso- 
lution to make resolutions, but it extends no 
farther,! cannot keep them: and to escape 
from the misery brought on by one passion, I 
have so habituated myself to bathe in a branch 
of the same flood, that I cannot look for any 
other relief. You very naturally ask me where 
all this must end? I know not! and to similar 
interrogatories I have sometimes madly re- 
plied, I care not!— Bat I shall not offend you 



17 



with such a declaration; and when I &m writing 
to you I do not feel myself disposed to do it. 
In answering you, therefore, I shall adopt the 
language of the ruined gamester, vvho ad- 
dressed his shadow in the glass; " J(^ vous at 
dit ct redit Malheur-eux! que^ si vous co'itinuez a 
Jaire de pareils fours, vous iriez a I'hopital.'" 

You lay great stress upon the powers of 
Reason, and, in truly philosophical language, 
heightened by the most proper and affecting 
imagery, present this sage directress of weak 
mortals to my attention. I receive her at your 
hand, x'espect her as your friend, and venerate 
her as the cause of your superiority over me, 
but whether she perceives that my respect is 
insincere, or remembers how shamefully I 
have neglected her; so it is, that she slides in- 
sensibly from me, and I see her no more. — 
My bark rides steady for a moment, but it is 
not long ere it again becomes the sport of 
winds and billows. But, after all, and without 
any blasphemous arraignment of the order of 
Providence, permit me to ask you, Why is this 
principle, implanted in our natures for the 
wise and happy regulation of them, so weak 
in itself, so slow in its progress, and so la<e in 
'its maturity ? If it is designed to controul our 
Passions, why does it not keep pace with them.? 
-^wherefore does it not ^row ivith their grotvth^ 



13 



and strengthen with their strength? — and what 
cause can be assigned that the one are ripe for 
graiification before the other has scarce bursted 
into blossom? Let us, however, take a long 
stride from the imbecility of youth to the firm- 
ness of mature age, and we shall see that the 
Passions have only changed their form ; that 
Reason still totters, is frequently driven from 
her throne, and even deserts those w^ho have 
most cultivated her friendship, and acknow- 
ledged her power. The contest frequently 
continues through life, and the superiority as 
often ends, where it always begins, on the side 
of Passion. We may be said even sometimes 
to outlive Reason, while Passion of some kind, 
and, many times, of the worst kind, will pre- 
serve its influence to the last. To conclude the 
matter, how often does the lamp of human 
reason become extinct, yielding corporeal 
nature a prey to passion in the extreme, whose 
tortures are rendered more fierce by the iron 
restraints of necessary policy and medical in- 
terposition! 

If it were possible to trace the course of 
Reason in the mind of the best man that ever 
lived, from its first budding to a fulness of 
matui'ity, what a mortifj'ing scene would be 
unveiled! What checks and delays, what tran- 
quillity and tumult, what frequent extinction 



19 



and renovation, what rapid flights and sudden 
downfals, what contest and submission, would 
compose tlie operations of this rightful mis- 
tress of human actions! Men of cold tempers, 
and habituated to reflection, may cry up this 
distinctive faculty of man; they may chant its 
! apotheosis, and build temples to its honour;— 
such were Lord Shaftesbury and Mr. Addison; 
— and they may be joined by those whose 
j fortunate education and early connexions have 
' given to their warmer dispositions the best ob- 
jects; in that confined but happy society I must 
place my friend, whose kind star preserved his 
youth from temptation, and blest his bloom of 
manhood with the ample and all-satisfying 
I pleasures of virtuous love. — You will not sus- 
pect me of wishing to diminish the reahty of 
I that merit which I so much admire, or of 
j a desire to damp the glow of that virtue whose 
I lustre cannot be diminished by my envy, or 
I lieightened by my praise; but, in the course of 
human affairs, time and chance have sq. much 
I to do, that I cannot suppose even your worth 
I to be without some obligations to them. 
I To conclude this very, very long letter, I 
' must beg leave to observe, that I do not under- 
stand why Heasorif that divinity of philosophers, 
j should be cooped up in the confined region of 
; the brain, while the 4*assions are permitted to 



20 



range at large, and without restraint, through 
every other part of the body. — I see you smile; 
— but he Hhstired that these two jarring powers 
are, for a moment, botl« united in me, to assure | 
you that 1 am with a real sincerity, 

Yours, &c. 



LETTER IV. . 

I AVAIL myself. Madam, of the very obliging 
offer you made me of suffering a small parcel 
to occupy an useless pocket in your coach. It 
is of some little importance; but if the custom- 
house officers at Dover should suspect you of 
being a smuggler of lace, as you certainly are 
of other and better things, and insist upon ex- 
amining its contents, I beg you will indulge [ 
their curiosity without ceremony. On your 
arrival in London, when any of your servants ' 
should be unemployed, I must desire the ad* | 
ditior.nl favour of its being sent to the place ' 
where it is addressed. 

I feel myself extremely mortified, that a cold 
which forbids me to utter any thing more than ' 
a whisper, should have prevented me from of. j 
fering you my personal wishes for your health t 
and happiness, anagreeable journey, and a safe 
arrival in England, where your friends will feel 



21 



fA delight in seeing you, whicii can b 
equalled by their regret whom }ou hav- 
;behind. Among the number of them I &n 
cthe least sincere; and, though I fcnmd \ 
gates but very seldom open for me, I :r\ truly 
grateful to you for the pleasure I received 
whenever you indulged me with the honour 
of an admittance. 

Perhaps your caution, in this particular, p .- 
jceeded from an ill opinion of me; you migi '. 
consider me as a person too dangerous to break. 
[With openly; or too intruding to trust with fa- 
miliarity. If so, you have done me wrong, and, 
what is more, you have done injustice to your- 
self. There is a dignity in virtue like yours, 
I which commands respect from all; and the 
worst of men would be overawed in his ap- 
iproaches to it. Perhaps, Madam, there was also 
ja little compassion mingled with your reserve. 
I You must be conscious of your charms; but 
Ipossessedof an heart which would find no glory 
:in coquettish triumphs, you did not suffer me 
I to approach you, lest I should be scorched by 
I the beams of that beauty which is sufficient to 
inflame all, and which you preserve for one. 
If such humane considerations governed the 
orders wliich were given to your Sioiss, it be- 
I comes me to express my grateful st- nse of your 
; kindness; but, if you acted from motives not so 



22 

.fijle w i.ne, I must lament, as a tenfold 
lune, > uat you should add another thong 
.? scor I ge of injustice, 
iielie ve in my heart, that in your society, 
.;;id sucJi as I should have met with you, would 
have been of great use and benefit to me; and 
*' ; ill being so sparing of your welcomes, you 
iiccd doing a great good. The very business 
• rt' this letter has made a gloomy mind less 
gloonoy; and, if I had half a dozen letters to 
wrv^to half a dozen persons Uke yourself, if 
SQ many could be found in the world, it would 
make this day, in spite of every unpleasant in- 
disposition, one of the happiest and best of 
my life. During tlie future part of it, what of 
good or honour is destined for me, I cannot 
tell; but I shall ever consider it as a very greaf 
and most flattering privilege, whenever you 
will permit me, in any manner, to assure you 
with what real respect 

I am, &c. 



LETTER V. 

Of all the birds in the air, who should have 

been liere but ! I met her in the , 

where she could not well avoid me, though I 
saw in her looks a wish to do it. She received 
me therefore with great politeness; conversed 



23 

i^ith inucli ease and vivacity during the \\\. s 
ind, when T requested permission to wait o: 
ler, slie granted it, in that sort of manner 
>vhich told me, in as strong terms as looks, 
could give, *' You are very imprudent to risk 
such a request; but as an absolute refusal w\\ ht 
raise conjectures in those about us unfavc i .- 
ble to you, I will not answer you with a denial, 
and my gates shall not always be shut against 
you. But you will do well to proportion your 
visits to what you may naturally conceive to be 
my desire." And she has kept her word. 
During six weeks that she was here, I called 
ten times, and was admitted only thrice, when 
there M^as a great deal of company. — This is a 
very superior woman; for, while she conducts 
I herself in such a manner to me, as to tell me 
i plainly, that the respect she has for my family 
is the only inducement to give me the recep- 
1 tion she does; there is not a single looksuffer- 
1 edto escape her, from which any person might 
I form the most distant suspicion of her senti- 
I ments concerning me. It is my blab of a con- 
science that does the business for me; — it is 
that keen-sighted lynx, which sees things im- 
pervious to every other eye; and thus I expose 
myself to myself, when I appear without spot 
or blemish to the circle about me. 

— is a very fine woman, a very sensi- 
ble woman, and, what is more rare, a very 



24 

/•ationai woman. The three qualities of beauty, 
^calents, and wisdom, which are generally sup- 
<^oosed to be incompatible in the same female 
^f^character, are, however, united in her. There' 
^ is another circumstance, which, though a rake, 
I cannot but admire, and which the most dis- 
solute respect in others, though they are 
strangers to it themselves; — I mean constancy. 
From the united principle of duty and affec- 
tion, she is faithful to her husband, who, to 
say the truth, highly deserves it. Such a woman 
is capable of making the bad good, the incon- 
stant stable, and the giddy wise; and he, who .i 
would wish to see what is most perfect and > 
respectable in the female character, would dp j 
well to make a pilgrimage to see and con- j 
verse with her. I was so very much afflicted 
with a cold, as not to be able to go and hand 
her to the coach on her departure; which was 
a circumstance still more afflicting than the | 
cold; so I consoled myself by writing her a { 
letter, which was half serious, more than half 
gallant, and almost sincere. 

If you could, by any 'means, discover — and I 
should think it would be in your power to do 
it without much trouble— whether she has at 
any time mentioned it, and, if so, in what 
manner she expressed herself, you would vevy 
sensibly gratify the curiosity of 

Your affectionate, &c. 



25 



LETTER VI. 

It is so long since I received your letter, 
Ihat I am almost ashamed to answer it; and be 
assured that, in writing my apology, and asking 
your pardon, I act with a degree of resolution 
that I have seldom experienced. I hardly ex- 
pect that you will receive the one or grant the 
other; I do not deserve either, or indeed any 
kindness from you of any sort; for I have been 
very ungrateful. I am myself very sensible of 
it, and very much apprehend that you will be 
of the same opinion. 1 was never more 0011- 
•xious of my follies than at this moment; and, 
I if you should have withdrawn yourself from 
the very few friends which are left me, I shall 
not dare to complain; for I deserve the loss, 
3AV.\ can only lament that another and a deeper 
shade will be added to my life. The very idea 
laf such a misfortune is most grievous; and 
nothing can be more painful than the reflec- 
Lion of suffering it from a fatal, ill-starr'd, and 
abortive infatuation, which will prove my bane. 
j I have written letters, since I received yours, 
!;o many who have never done me any kind. 
jaess; to some who have betrayed me; and to 
I others whose correspondence administered no 
i 3ne comfort to my heart, or honour to my cha. 
:^cteri and for them, at least engaged with 
B 



26 



them, I have neglected you, to whose dla- 
interested friendship I am so much indebted, 
and which is now become the only point 
whereon to fix my anchor of hope. 

But this is not all; if it were, I have some- 
thing within me which would whisper your 
forgiveness; for you know of what frail mate- 
rials I am made, and have ventured, in the 
face of the world's malice, to prognosticate 
favourably of my riper Hfe. But I fear that 
you will ihink meanness added to ingratitude, 
when I tell you that 1 am called back to ac- 
knowledge your past goodness to me, and to 
ask a repetition of it, not from any renewed 
sentiments of honour or gratitude, but by im- 
mediate and wringing distress. In such a situa- 
tion your itlea presented itself to me; an idea 
which was not encouraged in seasons of en- 
joyment; it never wished to share my plea- 
sure, but, like the first-born of friendship, it 
iiaslened to partake my pain. Though it came 
in so lovely a form, I ilared not bid it welcome; 
and I started, as at the sight of one whom I 
had severely injured, whose neglect, contempt 
and revenge, I might justly dread, while I did 
j'iot possess the least means of resistance, nor 
Juid a covert left where 1 might fly for refuge! 

This is a very painful confession, and will, I 
hope, plead my cause in your bosom, and win i 



27 



you to gTiint my request. I have written to 
■ ■ '■■ ■■ for some time past, and have never 
been favoured with one line of reply. Indeed, 
it has been hinted that he refuses to read my 
letters. However that may be, he most cer- 
tainly does not answer them. In order, there- 
fore, that I may know my fate, and be certain 
of my doom, I most earnestly and submissively 
entreat you to deliver the enclosed letter into 
his hands.— If I should be deserted by you 
both, the consequences may be of such a na- 
ture, as, in the most angry paroxysm, you 
would, neither of you, wish to 

Your most obliged, &c. 



LETTER VII. 

MT BEAR , 

I UETURN you all my thanks for the endea- 
vours you have made to satisfy the wishes of 
my last letter. I am very grateful to you, 
though they have proved fruitless, I suppose 
she destroyed the paper the moment she had 
perused the contents of it Perhaps she did not 
even deign to read it, but delivered it immedi- 
ately to the flames, as tainted and infectious, 
in coming from so unholy a person as I am. 
The idea mortifies me. To be treated with 



contempt is always painful, and more so to 
those who deserve it, as they have no shelter 
in themselves to which they can fly for pro- 
tection; in their own hearts they will find the 
echo of those sounds against which they shut 
their ears ; while the good man possesses a 
shield in his virtue, and returns compassion 
for injustice. Contempt becomes still more 
poignant, when it is conducted with a delicacy 
which does not give you the most momentary 
opportunity of returning it; when it is so 
blended with good humour and external de- 
corum as to let no one see it but the conscious 
victim. 

In this manner did the fair lady manage the 
matter with me; she honoured me with every 
mark of exterior respect; she suffered no polite 
attention or civihty to escape her; at the same 
time, her conduct towards me was so general 
and equally tempered, that she won me, as it 
were by enchantment, into the same mode, 
and precluded familiarity. I had indeed brought 
myself to the resolution of making my ap- 
proaches more nearly, when she immediately 
discovered my design, and, by asking some 
questions about my father, which were wholly 
unexpected on my part, and connected with 
some very stingmg ideas, she threw me al; 
once to my former distance, dissipated ia « 



29 



moment the impudence I had collected for the 
occasion, and I have never seen her since. 

You have some sportable fancies upon the 
subject, and you are welcome to them; but 
for once you are beside the mark; and, though 
your incredulity may oppose itself to my asser- 
tion, believe me that I have an honest respect 
for this woman, and it is on that account that I 

i am so severely wounded by her treatment of 
me. The contempt of half mankind is not 
worth the smile it occasions; they act from 
caprice, folly, weakness, envy, or some base 
motive; they join the vulgarclamourthey know 
not why; and their hiss, though loud, gives not 

1 the pain of a moment; but the scorn of good 
and honourable men is the fruit of conviction; 
it springs from an aversion to what is contrary 

I to their own excellence, and cannot be re- 
torted. There is no other way of being re- 

' venged of them, but in giving the lie to their 

1 unfavourable prognostications, by an immedi- 
ate and complete reformation ; and this is a 
difficulty, my friend, of whose arduous nature 
you are equally sensible with myself — Facilis 
descensus Averni — sedrevocare graduiriy &c. &c. 
&c. — The road by contrition to amendment is 

I humiliating, painful and difficult ; and the 

; greater part of guilty mortals adopt thesenti- 

! ments of Macbeth: 



30 



I am in blood 



Stept in so far, that should I wade no more, 
Returning were as bad as to go o'er." 

But to the purpose; I have another commis- 
sion for you, in which I flatter myself you will 
be more successful than in your last. You must 
know, then, I am in a bad plight, and there is 
no good ground of expectation that matters 
will go better with me ; on the contrary, the 
prospect is a dark one, and the gloom in- 
creases every step I take. To extricate myself, 

if possible, I wrote to , who has not 

answered my letters, and, I am disposed to 
think, never opens them. I was, therefore, 
under the necessity of addressing a very piti- 

ffcil, penitential epistle to . 1 have used 

him scurvily, and made such an ill return to all 
his zeal to serve me, that 1 have too much 
reason to apprehend his resentment. He 

passed through about six weeks ago, 

without inquiring after me. However, without 
appearing to know any thing of that circum- 
stance, I ventured to tell a miserable tale to 
him, and to beseech his kindness would once 
more interest itself in my behalf, by delivering 

a letter into — • 's own hands. It would 

be an easy matter, I should imagine to dis- 
cover if he has complied with my request. 



Si 

T— — will inform you if he has been luteiy, 
and when, in street. Perhaps he may 

i have scented out something more; and what- 
ever you can discover, I should be glad to 
know with all possible dispatch. They will, 
probably be slow in their operations, whatever 
they may be, and your information will direct 
my hopes or confirm my fears — will either 

i give a sunshine to the present shade, or pre- 
pare me for the worst. Adieu, and believe me 
Ever yours, &c. 



LETTER VIIL 

YotJ accuse me of neglect in not informing 
you that I was in London. Believe me, I had 
every disposition in the world to do it, but was 
opposed by circumstances, which, among 
other mortifications, prevented me from seeing 
you. I came to England in so private a manner, 
that I imagined no one would, or indeed, could 
know of my arrival; but by a combination of 
unlucky circumstances, the secret was dis- 
covered, and by those who were the most 
likely to make a very iinpleasant use of theii' 
knowledge. I was, therefore, obliged to shift 

my plan, and to beg H to give me an 

a.sylum in his house, where he very kindly re- 
ceived and entertained me. Mv abode was not 



suspected by any one; and I remained there 
till certain people were persuaded that I had 
never left the continent, or was again returned 
to it; and till the hell-hounds, which were in 
pursuit of me, had relaxed their search. 

You must, certainly, have heard me mention 
something of my Host and Hostess: they are 
the most original couple that ever were paired 
together; and their singularity effected what, 
I believe, no other amusement could have 
attained — it made me forget the disagreeable- 
ness of my situation. He possesses a strange, 
wild, rhapsodic genius, which, however, is not 
uncultivated; and, amid a thousand odd whim- 
sical ideas, he produces original bursts of 
poetry and understanding, that are charming. 
She is a foreigner, assumes the title of 
Countess, and, without knowing how to write 
or read, possesses, in the circumstance of dress, 
behaviour, &c., all her husband's dispositions. 
She is fantastic, grotesque, outree, and wild; 
nevertheless, at times, there are very pleasing 
gleams of propriety in her manners and ap- 
pearance. 

I cannot describe so well as you may con- 
ceive the striking and odd contrast of these 
two characters; and what strange sparks are 
produced by the collision of them. When she 
imagines that Cytherea acknowledges her 



divinity, and lie grasps in his hand the lyre oi' 
Apollo; when the goddess unfolds herself to 
view with imaginary millions at her feet, and 
when the god chides the chairs and tables for 
not being awakened into a cotilhon by his 
strains; in short, when the sublime fit of mad- 
ness is on, it is an august scene; but if the divi- 
nities should rival each other, heaven changes 
instantly into a hell, Venus becomes a trull, 
and Phoebus a blind fiddler. It is impossible to 
describe the I'iot ; not only reflections, but 
things of a more solid nature are thrown at 
each other. Homer's genius is absolutely ne- 
cessary to paint celestial combats. But it ends 
not here; this superb opera, which was acted, 
at least during my stay, three times a week, 
and rehearsed generally every day, for the 
most part, has an happy conclusion. The con- 
! test requires the support of nectar, which 
' softens the edge of resentment, puts the parties 
I in good humour, and they are soon disposed to 
I acknowledge each other's merit and station, 
\ with a zeal and fondness superior, if possible, 
' to their late rage and opposition. A number 
of collateral circumstances serve as interludes 
to the grand piece, and, though less sublime, 
are not less entertaining. 

You will now, probably, be no longer dis- 
pleased with me for making my hiding-place 
B2 



34 



a secret. One hour's attendance upon our 
orgies womld have done for you; on the con- 
trary, they suited me. I wanted something to 
hurry my spirits, to dissipate my thoughts, and 
amuse my mind; and I found it in this retreat. 
You know enough of the parties to enter into 
my description. I hope it will make you laugh ; 
but if my pen should fail, I will promise to 
make your sides ache when we meet again; a 
pleasure which I look to with a most sensible 
impatience. I remain 

Yours most truly, 8cc, 



LETTER IX. 

SiscE the little snatch of pleasure I enjoyed 
with you, I have been again obliged to make 
my retreat; I had made good my ground, in 
my own opinion, but the devil that is in me 
would not suffer me to maintain it. There is a 
proverb of Zoroaster to the following effect,— 
«' That there are an hundred opportunities of 
doing ill every day,but that of doing wellcomes 
only once a year" There is some wit and 
much truth in the observation. The wise man 
%vas led to make it, I suppose, from the cir- 
cumstances of the times wherein he lived; and 
If it had been his lot to breathe in these latter 



35 

days, he would be equally justified in forming 
and applying such an opinion; and, perhaps, 
in every intervening period. Indeed, if I may 
judge from my own experience, matters are 
still growing worse; for I never fuil to find the 
daily opportunities, but the annual one has 
ever escaped me. 

There is nothing so miserable, and I may 
add, so unfortunate, as to have nothing to do. 
The peripatetic principle, that Nature abhors 
a vacuum, may be applied, with great pro- 
priety, to the human intellect, which will em- 
brace any thing, however criminal, rathei' 
than be without an object. It is a matter of in- 
dubitable certainty with me, that, if I had kept 
my seat in parliament, most of the unpleasant 
predicaments in which I have been involved 
since that time would have been avoided. I 
was disposed to application in the political 
line, and was possessed of that ready faculty 
of speech which would have enabled me to 
make some little figure in the senate. I should 
have had employment; my passions would have 
been influenced by a proper animating object, 
and my vanity would have been sufficiently 
satisfied. During the short time I sat in parlia- 
ment, I found myself in the situation I have 
described; I was pleased with the character: 
I availed myself of its privileges Vv'hile I pos 



sessed them; 1 mingled in public debate, and 
received the most flattering testimonies of ap- 
plause. If this scene had continued, it would 
have been very fortunate for myself, and have 
saved my friends great anxiety and many 
alarms; you, among the rest, would have been 
spared the pain of much unavailing counsel 
and disregarded admonition. 

You know me well enough to be certaia 
that I must have a particular and not a common 
object to employ my attention; it must be an 
object which inspires desire, calls forth ac- 
tivity, keeps hope upon the stretch, and has 
some sort of high colouring about it. Power 
and popular reputation are of this kind, and 
would greatly have engrossed my thoughts 
and wishes; they would have kept under the 
baser passions ; I should have governed them 
at least; and my slavery, if I was destined to be 
H slave, would have been more honourable. 
But, losing a situation so suitable to me, I fell 
back a prey to that influence which had 
ivlready proved so fatal, and yielded myself a 
victim to an habitual dissoluteness which 
formed my only pleasure. 

I do not mean to write a disrespectful 
thought on my father; I would not off"end you 
by doing it; but, surely, his ignorance of man- 
kind is beyond all conception. It is hardly cre^ 



37 

dible that a man of his understanding and 
knowledge, whose Ufe has been ever in the 
world, and the most polished societies of it, 
who writes well and ably on its manners, 
be so childish in its concerns as to deserve the 
coral that amused, and the go-cart that sus- 
tained, him sixty years ago. I write in confi- 
dence; and you know what I assert to be true. 
Indeed, I might go further, and trace the 
errors of my own life from the want of that 
kind of paternal discernment which sees into 
the character of his child, watches over its 
growing dispositions, gently moulds them to 

I his will, and completes the whole by placing 

I him in a situation suitable to him. 

I have been the victim of vanity ; and the 
sacrifice of me was begun before I could form 
a judgment of the passion. You will, proba- 
blj', understand me ; but, if there should be 
the least gloom in my allusions, I will, with 

j your leave, explain the matter more clearly in 

' some future letter. There is a great deal of 
difference between a good man and a good 
father; I have known bad men who excelled 
my father as much in parental care as he was 

j superior to them in real virtue. — But more of 
this hereafter. In the mean time, and at all 

! limes, I am, &c. 



LETTER X. 

You have, certainly, given yourself very un- 
justifiable airs upon my subject; neither your 
talents, knowledge, figure, courage, or virtue, 
afford you the shadow of that superiority over 
me, which I understand you affect to maintain. 
However imprudent or bad my conduct may 
have been, whatever vices I may unfortunately 
possess, be assured I do not envy you your 
snivelling virtues, which are W'orse than the 
worst vices, and give an example of meanness 
and hypocrisy in the extreme. — Your letter is 
a farrago of them both; and since the receipt 
of it I despise you more than ever. 

What, Sir! has my father got a cough, or 
does he look thinner than usual, and read his 
bible?— There must be some certain symptom 
of his decay and dissolution that could induce 
you to address yourself so kindly to one, who, 
to use your own expression, is, as he ought to 
be, abandoned by his family. You have dream- 
ed of an hatchment upon house, and seen 

a visionary coronet suspended over my brow. 
You are a simpleton and a parasite to let such 
weak reasons guide you to wag your tail and 
play the spaniel, and renew your offers to 
fetch and carry. Be assured, for your comfort, 
that if ever you and I have any future inter- 



S9 



course together, it will be upon such terms, 
or worse. 

I have heard it said, and I believe it to be 
true, that you pretend to lament your poor — 
— 's fate, and, with a more than rueful visage, 
prognosticate the breaking of his heart from 
the wicked life of his graceless son. Now, I 
will tell you a secret, that, supposing such a 
canting prophecy should take place to-mor- 
row, you would be the first to flatter the 
parricide. 1 consider you with a mixture of 
scorn and pity, when I see you so continually 
hampered in difficulties from your regard to 
the present and future lord; though you order 
your matters tolerably well; for there is not 
one of our family to whom your hypocritical 
canting will not ansv/er in some measure, but 
to myself. I know you, and I declare you to 
be incapable of any love or affection to any 
one, even to a mother or a sister. You know 
what I mean; but to quit an idea abhorrent to 
human nature, let me entreat you, if it is in 
your power, to act with candour, and, if you 
must speak of me, tell your sentiments openly, 
and not with those covert looks and affected 
shrugs, which convey so much more than 
meets the ear; and be so good, I pray you, as 
to raise your merit upon your own mighty 
fstock of virtues, and not upon my vices. The 



40 



world will one day judge between us, and I 
must desire you to be content with the ac- 
knowledged superiority you will receive from 
the arbitration in your favour. 

Oh, sultum nlmis est, cum tu pravissima tentes, 
Alterius censor ut vitiosa notes! 

I have not yet sung a requium to my own 
honour; and, though you and some others of 
my good friends may have chaunted a dirge over 
the grave you have yourselves dug for it, it 
does not rest, however, without the hopes of 
a joyful and speedy resurrection. To have 
done \\\\.h you for the present, 1 have only to 
desire you to be an open enemy to me, or a 
real friend, if you are capable of either; the 
halting between two opinions on the matter is 
both disgraceful and contemptible. Be assured 
that I give you these counsels more for your 
own sake than for that of 

Your humble Servant, &c. 



LETTER XI. 

JIT BEAIl SIR, 

You wish that I should explain myself at 
large with respect to that vanity vihich I ac- 
cuse of having been the cause of every incon= 



41 

I'enience and misdoing of my past life, to which 
[ owe the disagreeable circumstances of my 
present situation, and shall be indebted proba. 
jly, for some future events which, I fear, are 
n store for me. 

You will, I believe, agree with me that vanity 
s the foible of my family; every individual has 
I share of it for himself and for the rest; they 
ire all equally vain of themselves, and of one 
mother. It is not, however, an unamiable 
v'anity; it makes them happy, though it may 
{ometimes render them ridiculous; and it never 
lid an injury to any one but to me. I have 
2very reason to load it with execration, and 
:o curse the hour when this passion was con- 
centrated to myself. 

Being the only boy and hopes of the family, 
jnd having such an hereditary and collateral 
?ig]it to genius, talents, and virtue, (for this 
kvas the language held by certain persons at 
:hat time,) my earliest prattle was the subject 
of continual admiration; as I increased in years, 
[ was encouraged in boldness, which partial 
fancy called manly confidence; while sallies of 
impertinence, for which I should have been 
scourged, were fondly considered as marks of 
m astonishing prematurity of abilities. As it 
happened, Nature had not been a niggard to 
me ; it is true she has given me talents, but 



accompanied them with dispositions which d^* 
manded no common repressure and restraint, 
instead of Hberty and encouragement; but this 
vanity hath blinded the eyes, not only of my 
relations, but also of their intimate connec- 
tions; and, I suppose, such a hot-bed of flattery 
was never before used to spoil a mind, and to 
■choak it with bad qualities, as was applied to 

mine. The late Lord Bath, Mrs — — , and 

many others, have been guilty of administering 
fuel to the flame, and joined in the family in- 
cense to such an idol as myself. Thus was I 
nursed into a very early state of audacity; and 
being able, almost at all times, to get the 
laugh against a father, or an uncle, &c. I was 
not backward in giving such impertinent 
specimens of my ability. This is the history of 
that impudence which has been my bane, 
gave to my excesses such peculiar accompani- 
ments, and caused those, who would not have 
hesitated to commit the offence, loudly to con* 
demn the mode of its commission in me. 

When I drew towards manhood, it will be 
sufficient to say, that I began to have some 
glimmering of the fami!y weakness; however, 
1 was still young; dependence was a considera- 
ble restraint^ and I had not acquired that subse- 
quent knowledge of the world which changed 
my notions of paternal authority. I was there- 



43 

Tore without much difficulty, brought to con- 
sent to the design of giving solidity to my 
character, and preserving me from public 
2ontagion, by marriage. A rich and amiable 
y^oung lady was cliosen to the happy and ho- 
nourable task of securing so much virtue as 
loiine, to correct the natural exuberance of 
youthful inexperience, and to shape me into 
that perfection of character which was to 
verify the dreams of my visionary relations. 

I must own that the lady was both amiable 
and handsome, but cold as an anchorite,- and, 
(though formed to be the best wife in the world 
to a good husband, was by no means calculated 
to reclaim a bad one. But, to complete the 
sensible and well-digested plan, in which so 
many wise heads were concerned, it was de- 
termined for me to make the tour of Europe 
previous to my marriage, in order to perfec- 
tionale my matrimonial qualifications; and the 
lovely idea of the fair maid I left behind was 
presented to me, as possessing a talismanic 
power to preserve me from seduction. But 
this was not all; for the better enabling me to 
make a proper and becoming appearance, or, 
in other words, to give me every means of 
gratification, the family purse was lavishly held 
forth ; I was left almost without controul in 
point of expense, and every method pursued 
to make me return the very reverse of what 



44 

expectation had painted me. — ^You know asj 
well as myself what happened during my tra-i 
vels, as well as after my return ; and 1 trust 
that you will impute my misconduct, in part i 
at least, to its primary cause. 

In this short sketch of the matter, which 
consists rather of hints than descriptions, you 
will see the drift of my reasoning, and know 
how to apply it to a thousand circumstances 
in your remembrance. You were present at 
my being received into the arms of my family 
with a degree of warmth, delight, and triumph, 
which the brightest virtue could alone have 
deserved; and you recollect the cause of all 
tliis rapturous forgiveness, which, I believe, 
penitence itself would not, at that time, have 
effected; it was my having made a speech in 
parliament, flowery indeed, and bold, but very 
little to the purpose; and at a time when, as I 
was certain that I should lose my seat, it would 
have been prudent in me to have remained 
silent; however, Mr. Ellis thought proper to 
compliment me upon the occasion, and to ob- 
serve that I spoke with hereditary abilities} 
and this circumstance instantly occasioned th^ 
short-lived family truce that succeeded. 

That my relations may have cause to com- 
plain of me, I do not deny; but this confession 
is accompanied with an opinion, in which I 
doubt not of your acquiescence, that I, on my 



u 

Slide also, have no small cause of complaint; 
iud, however biack the colour of my future 
* ife may be, I shall ever consider that the dusky 
; scenes of it are occasioned by the vanity of my 
amily., and not by any obdurate or inflexible 
iiispositions inherent in my own character. 
I am, with great regard, 

Yours, Sec. 

LETTER XII. 

ly^ DEAR — , 

If you had been at all explicit with me about 
jhe Arabian courser^ he should most certainly 
nave been at your service. Notwithstanding he 
'.Vas the gift of Byme?i, to whom I have so few 
obligations, the animal was a favourite, and I 
wrought him to the continent with me, where 
l:ie was very troublesome, and very useless. — 
But he troubles me no more; and a little ridi- 
culous event, which happened a few weeks 
igo, made me hate and detest him. If there 
lad been any laughers, the laugh would have 
Deen very much against me on the occasion; 
js it was, I felt and looked so foohsh, that I 
never afterwards could turn a favourable eye 
iiponthe beast that v/as the cause of my mor- 
tification. 

I shall not give you an sccount of this little 



46 

history; for, as I am tlie principal hero of it, II 
shall not tell it well; so I resign the task to' 

P . When you see him, therefore, question' 

him upon the subject, and he will do it justice. 
He is a most lively, good humoured, and plea- 
sant man, who bears the ills of life as if they 
were blessings, and seems to take the rough 
and the smooth with an equal countenance. This 
sort of unbended philosophy is the best gift 
that Nature can bestow on her children; it 
lightens the burden of care, and turns every 
sable and ghastly hue of melancholy to bright 
and splendid colours. There is no one T envy 

so much as I do P ; a cap and bells is a 

crown to him; a tune upon a flageolet is a con- 
cert; if the sun shines, he sports himself in its 
beams; if the storm comes he skips gaily along; 
and when he is wet to the skin, it only serves 
to make out a pleasant story while he is drying 
himself at the fire. — If you are dull after din- 
ner, he will get up and rehearse half a dozen 
scenes out of a play, and do it well, and be as 
pleased with his performance as you can be. 
V/ith all these companionable talents, he is 
neitl)er forward, noisy, nor impertinent; but, 
on the contrary, very conversible, and pos- 
sesses as pleasant a kind of good breeding as 
any one 1 ever knew. 
His company has been a great relief to me. 



4r 



find I recommend you to cultivate his ac- 
juaintance as an entertaining and agreeable 
:ompanion. You and I, my dear friend, are 
; lifferently, and I mtist add, less happi ly framed. 
,iVe are hurried about by every gust and 
jvhirlvvind of passion; and though Hope does 
rhrow a paler gilding upon our disappoint- 
;nents, Fiar never fails to interrupt our plea- 
Mures. — I would give more than half of what I 
1 hall ever be worth to be blessed with a 

(Qoiety of P 's temper and disposition. 

J I am, 8cc. 



LETTER XIII. 

Jit dear fhiend, 

i I BEG your pardon, and plead guilty to the 
3 rime laid to my charge! The dialogues which 
i'ou have seen were written by me, on hints 
^fiven me by an infidel Frenchman at Turin* 
J, 'hat it was a folly, to say no worse, to amuse 
,,iyself with such compositions, I readily ac- 
.nowledge; nor am 1 less disposed to own that 
; was the weakest of all vanities to disperse 



* These dialogues are too irreverent and 
Wrofane to justify a publicalion, Tlie per- 
;onages of the first are the Samoiir of the 
World and Socrates; and of the second King 
')aviU and Ccesar Borgia. 



4S 



any copies of them. Your suspicion of their 
having been coinposed, in an evil hour, as a 
ridicule uponthose which have been pubhshed 
by my father, is a natural one; but, believe me, 
it is not founded in fact. Bad as they may be, 
they were not writ for so bad a purpose; and, 
if I had considered the possibility of such an- 
idea becoming prevalent, they would never 
have been exposed to any inspection, I wrote 
ihem originally in French, and never, to my 
recollection, gave them an English dress, but 
when I read them accidentally to some one 
who did not understand the former language. 
I was flattered into the suffering of some 
copies to be taken by the declaration of a re- 
spectable literary company, that they were 
superior to Voltaire's tragedy of Saul; and 
these copies must have been greatly multi- 
plied to have made it possible that one of them 
should have reached you. 1 am very sorry for 
it; for you have already more than sufficient 
reason to fill your letters to me with re- 
proaches; and I curse the chance that has 
thrown another motive in your way to con- 
tinue a train so disagreeable to us both. 

It is true that my father is a Christian; and 
has given an ample testimony of his faith to 
the world by his writings ; but it was long af- 
ter he attained to my age that he became a 



49 



convert to that system which he has defended. 
It is painful to me, and hardly fair in you, to 
occasion our being brought together in the 
same period; it takes from me the means of 
justification where I could use them, and of 
jpalliation wliere a complete defence might 
not be practicable. — As to my Right Reverend 
uncle, I shall consider him with less ceremony. 
He also may be a good Christian; but I re- 
collect to have heard him make a better dis- 
course upon the outside ornaments of an old 
jGothic pulpit, I think it was at Wolverhampton, 
than he ever delivered in one, throughout the 
Whole course of his evangelical labours. He 
seems much more at home in a little harangue 
I on some doubtful remnant of a Saxon tombstone 
j than in urging the performance of Christian 
'duties, or guarding, with his lay brother, the 
Christian fortress againstinfidel invasion. I well 
' remember also to have heard his Right Reve- 
1 rence declare, that lie would willingly give one 
of his fingers, (that was his expression) to have 
a good natural history of JVorcestershive. What 
jholy ardour he may possess as an antiquarian 
i I cannot tell; but, in my conscience, I think 
he would make a sorry figure as a Christian 
^ martyr J and that a zeal for our holy religion 
j would not inflame him to risk the losing of a 



50 



I repeat to you, upon my honour, that I did 
not wish these jeux d'esprit should have gone 
beyond the limits I had prescribed for them. 
The very few persons to whom I gave them 
were bound, by a very solemn promise, not to 
circulate their contents, or to name their au- 
thor. If they have forfeited their word, I am 
sorry for it ; but the failure of their engage- 
ment cannot be imputed to me, and the se-. 
verest judge would not think me guilty of 
more than chance -Tnedley on the occasion. In 
your breast, I hope there is a complete and 
full acquittal for 

Your most sincere and obfiged, &c- 



LETTER XIV. 

:^T DIAR — , 

I CANNOT bring it within the compass of my 
belief, that II has escaped your recollec- 
tion; however, I shall be able to restore it to 
its proper tone in a moment, by mentioning an 
©de addressed by him to me on the subject of 
gaming. You admired it too much to have 
forgot tiie author; and it now occurs to me, 
that you, or some one in the company, re- 
hearsed ou the occasion a long strain of laugha- 
ble Eton and Oxford anecdutes concerning 
fum; nay, the VQvy last time we were together, 



51 



you sarcastically repeated to me some of his 
vaticinations on my impetuous attacliment to 
play, and kindly foretold the completion of 
them. After all, I believe you are either laugh- 
ing- at me, or pretending- ignorance of my 
bard, in order to have an hash of the same 
dish which you are pleased to say delighted 
you so much in my last letter. 

Was it not you, or do I dream — who was so 
charmed with that part of his poem where he 
describes my being so reduced by gaming as 

to be obliged to sell H , and supposes the 

estate to be bought by the descendant of 
some felon, who was reprieved from death to 
transportation by my ancestor the Judge, whose 
picture he tears down from the wall, as a sight 
disgusting to him ? I am not certain as to the 
correctness of my recollection, but the lines 
are, I believe, to- the following effect — 

Shall some unfeeling stranger reign 

"Within that blest domain ? 

Some convict's spawn, by thy forefather's breath, 

Penhance, i-epriev'd from death? 

Whilst thou, self-bauish'd, self-enslav'd, shalt roam, 

Without a friend or home! 

Still shall he tremble at the Judge's frowna, 
1 And fraught \vith spite, tear down, 
1 From the repining Mall, his venerable shade, &c. 

It is a composition of great merit; and, if he 
was so fortunate as to possess a sense of har- 



52 



mony, he would almost put an end to the pre- 
sent vacation of poetry and poets. His thoughts 
are original, bold and nervous; his images apt, 
lively, and beautiful; his language is never 
peurile, but sometimes low and sometimes 
inflated. If his taste was improved and he had 
an ear for versification, which I think he has 
not, his compositions would be delightful, 
and, as I have already observed place him in 
in the first rank of modern poets. P~— — — s, I 
believe, sometimes visits him, and will most 
wiUingly present you a Monsieur and Madame, 
if you make known your wishes to him — A 
letter from me would shut his door against 
you; my former favour was never equal to my 
present disgrace; ajidif you wish to be well in 
that quarter, you must not acknowledge the 
least regard for me. Indeed you would do 
well never to mention the name of 

Your affectionate, 8cc. 



LETTER XV. 

And I awoke, and behold I was a Lord! — 
It was no unpleasant transition, you will rea- 
dily believe, from infernal dreams and an un- 
easy pillow, from insignificance and derelic- 
tion, to be a peer of Great Britain, ^Yith all the 



5-3 

privileges attendant upon that character, and 
some little estate into the bargain. My sensa- 
tions are very different from any I have ex- 
perienced for some time past. My conse- 
quence both internal and external, is already 
greatly elevated; and the emfiresscment of the 
people about me is so suddenly increased as 

to be ridiculous. By heavens! my dear , 

we are a very contemptible set of beings — and 
so on. 

Without meaning any thing so detestable as 
a pun, I shall certainly lord it over a few of 
those who have looked disdain at me. My 
coronet shall glitter scorn at them, and insult 
their low souls to the extreme of mortification. 

I have received a letter from , that dirty 

parasite, full of condolence and congratulation, 
with a my iordin every line, andj'oz/r lordship in 
ever}' period. I will make the rascal lick the 
dust ; and, when he has flattered me till his 
tongue is parched with lies, I will upbraid him 
with his treason, and turn my back upon him 
for ever. There are a score of bugs, or more, 
of the same character, whom the beams of my 
prosperity will warm into servility, and whose 
names will be left at my door before I have 
been ten days in town; but may eternal igno« 
miny overtake me, if I do not make the ten- 
derest vein in their hearts ache with mv re» 



54 

pi'oach! Whether the world will be converted 
into respect towards me, I do not pretend to 
determine; its anger will, at all events, be 
softened ; but, be that as it may, I can look it 
in the face with less fear than I was wont to do, 
and make it smile upon my political career, 
though it may still hold a frowning aspect 
towards my moral character. 

Permit me, however, to assure you, that 
whatever changes may appear in me towards 
others, I shall ever be the same to you. The 
acquisition of fortune, and an elevation to 
honours, will not vary a hne in my regard to 
those whose friendship has been so faithful to 
me as yours has been; nor shall you ever have 
cause to repent of your assiduous kindness to 
me. There is a balance in the human passions; 
and the mind that is awake to a spirit of re- 
venge, is equally inspired by the sentiments 
of gratitude. There is a dirty crew who shall 
experience the former, while you may confide 
in my solemn assurance to you of a most ample 
exertion of the latter. 

A proposf I must beg of you to forward the 
enclosed letter to -: — . With much difficulty 
I persuaded her, some time ago, to return to 
England; and I am apprehensive she may be 
already in town, expecting my arrival. If it be 
possiblcj contrive some means to free me from 



ler persecutions, both for her sake and my 
3wn, Should she be come to London, you 
;vill know where to find her; make any pro- 
mises you may think necessary in my name, 
jnd use every reason your imagination can 
ijuggest to persuade lier to return into the 
country. — You understand me. 

and are gone from hence this 

morning, to indulge their fancies in the busi- 
(less of cold iron, and powder and ball. I was 
I'ery near being hampered in the affair; but my 
sable suit and funeral duties excused me from 
the employment, and I suppose the first news 
[ shall hear of the event vvill be in England, 
where I hope sliortly to see and embrace you. 
In the mean time, believe me 

Most sincerely youcs, &c. 



LETTER XVI. 



MT DEAR FUIEXD, 



Your letter reached me with a large packet 
of others which my father's death had occa. 
sioned. Hov/ altered is the language of them 
upon the occasion! Yours, indeed, is exactly 
the same, or, if any thing, bears the tincture 
of more than usual severity. Flattery is a 
strain altogether new to me, and by the two 
last posts I have had enough to surfeit thfe 



56 

most arrant coquette upon earth. It is true I 
cannot compliment your letter with possessing 
an atom of adulation; nevertheless, it is the 
only one which has given me real pleasure, 
because it is the only one which bears the cha- 
racters of real friendship. Though I have acted 
in such a direct opposition to your cautions 
and remonstrances, I am not the less sensible 
to that generous passion which produced them, 
and has now taken the first opportunity to 
give me the essence, as it were, of all jour 
former counsels, in thus calling my attention 
to real and permanent honour. However I may 
offend you hereafter, you shall never again 
have cause to reproach me with a forfeiture 
of my word. T have, at present, lost that con- 
fidence in myself, which would justify me in 
offering assurances to you; the hopes of re- 
gaining it, hov/ever, are not entirely vanished, 
and when they are falfilled, which, I trust, they 
will one day be, you shall receive the first 
fruits of my renovation. 

I understand the purpose of your observa- 
tion, that the generality of men employ the 
first part of life in making the remainder of it 
miserable. I feel its force, and consider it as 
an indirect caution to me not to pursue a con- 
duct which must be attended with such a 
lamentable consequence. But, alas! credula 
irba sumus; tlioug'h t have paid clearly for my 



credulity, unless it should be immediately fol- 
lowed by the fruits of an wholesome experi- 
ence. We despise the world when we know 
it thoroughly; but we give ourselves up to it 
before we know it, and tiie heurt is frequently 
lost before it is illuminated by the irradiations 
of reason, 

' I have now succeeded to the possession of 
those privileges which are a part, and perhaps 
the best part, of my inheritance. Clouds and 
darkness no longer rest upon me. My exterior 
of things is totally changed; and, however un- 
moved some men's minds may be by outward 
circumstances, mine is not composed of such 
cold materials as to be unaffected by them. 
Such an active spirit as animates ray frame, 
I must have objects important in their nature, 
j inviting in their appearance, and animating in 
their pursuit. No longer forced to drown the 
Isensibihty to public disgrace and private in- 
convenience in Circean draughts, my cha- 
racter, I trust, will unfold qualities which it 
has not been thought to possess, and finally 
1 dissipate the kind apprehensions of friendship. 
j My natural genius will now have a full scope 
jfor exertion in the line of political duty; and 1 
Jam disposed to flatter myself, that the appli- 
I cation necessary to make a respectable figure 
in that career, v»lil leave me but little time for 
C2 



58 

those miserable pursuits, which of late have 
been my only resource. But I must desire you 
not to expect an instant conversion; the era of 
miracles is passed, and, besides, the world 
would suspect its sincerity. It is true, I am 
sinner sufficient to call down the interposition 
of Heaven, but the present age has no claim 
to such celestial notices. My amendment must 
be slow and progressive, though, I trust, in the 
end, sincere and effectual. But be assured, 
that, however the completion of your good 
wishes for me may be deferred, 1 am perfectly 
sensible that there is something necessary be- 
sides title, rank, and fortune, to constitute true 
honour. — With this sentiment I take my leave 
of you, and am, with real truth, 

Yours, &c. 

LETTER XVII. 

7-lY DEAR — — , 

I AM at an inn, and alone; and, if you were 
to guess for ten years, and had one of Osbonie''s 
catalogues to assist you, sure I am that you 
would not divine the book which has amused 
my evening, and given a subject to this letterj 
nay, I may venture to tell you it is poetical, 
and still bid defiance to your penetration. 

My two travelling volumes had been read 
twice in the course of my journey, and, as it 



59 

vvould not be worth the trouble to unpack a 
trunk for more, I desired the waiter to ask his 
mistress to send me a book; and in the interim 
[ amused myself with fancying what kind of 
publication would be brought me, resolving, 
however, if it should be the Pilgrim^ s Progress, 
the Whole Duty of Man, or even the Holy 
Bible, to make it the subject of my evening's 
kicubrations. The waiter returned, and desired 
to know if I chose prose or verse. This I 
thought looked well, and my preference being 
declared for the latter, I was, in a few minutes, 
presented with a small volume, which I found 
to be a Presbyterian hymn book, entitled 
Horce Lyricoe, by a Dr. Watts. My expectations 
were a little chagrined upon the occasion; how- 
ever, I turned over a few pages, looking curso- 
rily at the contents in my way, when T dropped 
upon a little odd composition, the subject of 
which was no less singular than applicable to 
myself. The title of it was Feto Happy Matches, 
From the character of the author, who was a 
dissenting minister, I had conceived that the 
reasons of matrimonial infelicity would be 
trite, whining and scriptural, and that I should 
ftnd some bouncing anathemas against such 
olTenders as your humble servant; but it turned 
out quite otherwise; the idea is a fanciful one; 
and I dave affirm, that, if Jpolh and the Nine 



60 

Muses had racked their brains for a twelve- 
month, they could not have hit upon such a 
conceit. 

The poet supposes that human souls come 
forth in pairs of male and female from the 
hands of the Creator, who gives them to the 
winds of Heaven to bear them to our lower 
world, where, if they arrive safe and meet 
again, they instinctively impel the bodies Ihey 
animate towards each other, so as to produce 
an hymeneal union, which, being originally 
designed by their author, must be necessarily 
happy; but, as from the length of the way, 
and the many storms, Sec. that check and come 
across it, they are generally separated before 
they reach their destination, their re-union is 
very rare; and the forming an alliance with any 
other but the original counterpart, being, as it 
were, an extraneous connexion, must be ne- 
cessarily miserable, and will produce those 
jarrings and contentions which so generally 
disturb matrimonial life. — This ingenious fancy 
will make you smile; nor would the ideas which 
occur to me on the subject re-brace j^our 
muscles, if I had paper or time to bear me out 
in them. They must serve for another oppor- 
tunity. Thus, according to my good Dr. Watts, 
matches are made in heaven, but marriages on 



61 



earth. I should think some of them have been 
I i fabricated in * • # » 



* * but no more of that. 

I really feel myself much indebted to this 

I Pindaric presbytei'ian for setting my conscience 
at rest, which now and then had a momentary 
qualm on a certain subject. The unlucky 
counterpart, which accompanied my soul from 
Heaven's gates, was tossed in some whirlwind, 
driven by some lightning, or detained by some 

I aerial frost, and, at length, I suppose, cast 
ashore among the antipodes. We are not 
destined, I believe, to meet again; and I fear 
poor soul! if I may judge from myself, that her 
lot is a very lamentable one, wherever it may 

I be. 

After all that sentimental talkers and senti- 
mental writers may produce upon the subject, 
marriage must be considered as a species of 
traffick, and as much a matter of commerce as 
any commodity that fills the warehouse of the 
merchant. We exchange passion for passion, 
beauty, titles, &c. for money, youth for age, 
and so on. The business may sometimes 
answer; but there are few examples, I fear, 
when the profit and loss come to be stated. 



62 

where the balance is considerable in favour 
of the former. Who, says the Spanish proverb, 
has ever seen a marriage without fraud, if 
beauty be a part of the portion? This idea will 
hold good in every other instance, and cor- 
roborates my principle of its being a matter 
of trade, which has its foundation in fraud 
and tricking. One marries for connexions, 
another for wealth, a third from lust, a 
fourth to have an heir, to oblige his parents, 
and so on. Every one of your married 
friends will come under these or similar de- 
scriptions, except Lord C— — , vi^ho married 
his lady^ as he buys his buckles, because she 
was the Ton; and I doubt not but he was com- 
pletely miserable, that he could not change 
her, as he does his buckles, for the fashion of 
the next spring, or perhaps, the next month. 
Plato was at a loss under what class to rank 
women, whether among brutes or rational 
creatures; Dr. Watts^s ideas are fur more 
favourable to the sex, for he has not hesitated 
to give them celestial natures. I must acknow- 
ledge that I have my doubts upon the subject. 
Mahometanism has, certainly some fine points 
about it; give him wine, and a Turk's life is not 
a bad one onCo So good night to ^-ou!— — =■ 



LETTER XVIII. 

Youn string of modern wits is not worth a 
beadsman's rosary. The era of wit is passed. — 
There are not half a score of men in the king- 
dom who deserve that title; and the rising 
world give no hopes of its restoration. The 
tree that bears such fruit is blasted. Do me the 
favour; I beseech you, to distinguish between 
a man of wit, and one who makes you laugh. 
The repetition of an old tale, a grimace, a 
blunder, the act of laughter in another, or even 
a serious look, may cause the muscular con- 
vulsion ; but wit is not levelled so much at the 
muscles as at the heart, and the latter will 
sometimes smile when there is not a single 
wrinkle upon the cheek. How it could ever 
enter into your head to think Chase Price a 
wit, puzzles and perplexes me. He has no more 
pretensions to it than he has to grace. He is 
a good humoured jolly buffoon, that writes a 
bawdy song, and sings it; says things that no- 
body but himself would choose to say; and 
does things that nobody besides would choose 
to do. Believe me, that Chase'sybrf is politics; 
not pubhc, but private politics; the science of 
which he understands better, and practises 
with more success, than any man in Great 
Britain. He is never without a point in view. 



64 

or a gwme to play; and he never sings a song-, 
or tells a smutty tale, without some design. 
Mere amusement to himself or others is not 
Mr. Price's plan; his humour has been a good 
fortune to him; and he will contrive I doubt 
not, to make it last as long as himself. Do you 
think, when Bolingbroke, Swift, Arbtithnat, 
Pope, &c. he. were assembled together, that 
the conversation of such a bright constellation 
of men was like the ribaldry of Mr. Price? 
Their wit did not consist in roaring a bawdy 
catcli, &c.; it was " the feast of reason, and the 
flow of soul." The flashes of imagination 
adorned and gave brilliance to the high dis- 
course; wisdom was enlivened, and not 
wounded, by their wit; and, among them, the 
herd of laughter-loving fools would not have 
found a single grin to console them. — If I were 
to sing one of Mr. Price's ballads, or to repeat 
one of his stories, you would receive, I fear, 
but little pleasure from the exhibition, because 
I could not give them the accompaniments of 
jioise and grimace which form their principal 
merit; and, perhaps, besides my deficiency in 
acting my part, I might produce the enter- 
tainment an hour too soon. But wit may be 
repeated by any one at any time, and, I be- 
lieve, in almost any language, with satisfaction 
and success; time may drown it in oblivion. 



65 



membered it will please ; while the facetious 
exhibitions of a boon companion will scarce 
survive his funeral. — But to proceed in youp 

' catalogue. 

Lord C — e's wit, as^'ell as that of his friend, 
lies in his heels, and is so powerfully exerted 

I in producing entre-SthtSy as to be languid to 
every other purpose. A few school-boy rhymes 
confer not the laurel of wit; and it was a great 
proof of an opposite character in this noble- 
man, to give his compositions to the world. He 
may understand French and Italian, and, per- 

: haps, speak both those languages tolerably 
well; it is probable, also, that he may not have 

I forgot every thing he learned at school; but 

I indeed, indeed, my friend, he is no wit. 

I Charles Fox is highly gifted; his talents are 

j of a very superior nature; and, in my opinion, 
i^/>2/'a^nc,J is scarcely behind him; in the article 
of colloc^uial merit, he is, at least, his equal; 
but they neither of them possess that attic 
character, which, while it corrects, gives 
strength to imagination; and, while it governs, 
gives dignity to wit. The late Earl of Bath, 
and'iVrr. Charles Toxvnshendy were blessed v.-ith 
no inconsiderable share of it; and it is an in- 
temperate vivacity of genius which confounds 
it in Mr, Edmund Burke. But the man who is 



66 

in the most perfect possession of it, has figured 
in so high a hne of public life, as to prevent 
the attention of mankind from leaving his 
greater qualities to consider his private and 
domestic character — I mean Lord Chatham^ 
whose familiar conversation is only to be ex- 
celled by his public eloquence. Perhaps, 
Lord Mansfield was born|pf I may use tlie ex- 
pression, with every attic disposition ; but the 
shackles of a law education and profession, 
and some other circumstances which I need 
not mention, have formalized, and, in some 
degree, repressed the brilliance of his genius. 
With respect to this great man, I cannot but 
pathetically apostrophize with Pope, 

How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost. 

George Selnayn is very superior to Chase 
Price, but very inferior to Charles Toivnshend, 
against whom, however, he used, as I am told, 
continually to get the laugh ; but this proves 
nothing; for good-humoured George Bodens 
would have gained the prize from them both 
in the article of creating laughter. I may be 
wrong, perhaps, but it has ever appeared to 
jne, that Islv. Sehvyn's faculty of repartee is 
mechanical, and arises more from habit than 
from genius. It would be a miserable business 
indeed, if a man, who had been playing upon 



er 



words for so many years, should not have 
attained the faculty of commanding them at 
!iis pleasure. 

B converses with elegance; L — — n is 

in excellent critic; and many others of the 
same class may be found, who are well qualified 
:o be members of a literary club, but no farther. 
^Garrick is himself upon the stage, and an act07- 
everywhere else, i^oofe is a mimic every where; 
sxcellent, delightful, on the theatre and in 
Drivate society — but still a mimic. No one can 

ake more pains than Mrs. M to be 

iurrounded with men of wit; she bribes, she 
pensions, she flatters, gives excellent dinners, 
s herself a very sensible woman, and of very 
uleasing manners; not young, indeed, but that 
is out of the question; and, in spite of all these 
j encouragements, which, one would think, 
! night make wits spring out of the ground, the 
jonversations of her house are too often criti- 
cal and pedantic, something between the dul« 
'less and the pertness of learning. They are 
l)erfect]y chaste, and generally instructive; but 
k cool and quiet observer would sometimes 
!augh to see how difficult a matter it is for la 
\tlle presidente to give colour and life to her 
jiterary circles. It surprises me that you should 
5ave Windham out of your list, who (observe 
Jiy prophecy) will become one of the ablest 
aien and shining characters that the latter 



68 

part of this age will produce. I hazard little in 
such a presentiment, for his talents, judgment, 
and atiainmeiits, will verify it. 

The gibes and jests, that are wont to set 
the table in a roi»r, promote the cheerful pur- 
poses of convivial society, but they have 
nothing to do with thai attic conversation 
which is the highest enjoyment of the human 
intellect. Wit, believe, me, is almost extinct; 
and I will tell you, among other reasons, why 
I think SO; — because no one seems to have any 
idea of what wit is, or who deserves the title 
of it. — To think little, talk of every thing, and 
doubt of nothing; to use only the external 
parts of the soul, and cultivate the surface, as 
it were, of the judgment; to be happy in ex- 
pression, to have an agreeable fancy, an easy 
and refined conversation, and to be able to 
please without acquiring esteem; to be born 
with the equivocal talent of a ready appre- 
hension, and on that account, to think one's 
self above reflection; to fly from object to 
object, without gaining a perfect knowledge 
of any; to gather hastily all the flowers, and 
never allow the fruit to arrive at maturity; all 
tliese, collected together, form a faint picture, i 
of what the generality of people, in this age, 
are pleased to honour with the name of wit. 

You must not be angry with me for this long^ 
klter, but rather be thankful that it is so short. 



69 

considering the subject you threw before me, 
and the desire I have to set you a thinking on 
a subject of which you seem to have formed 
very wrong notions. I again repeat, that true 
wit is expiring, and great talents also. My 
words are prophetic, and a few years will de- 
i termine the matter. It would not be a diffi- 
! culty to prove the why and the wherefore; but 
of all subjects, these half metaphysical ones 
are the most unpleasant to 

Yours, &c. 
! ^ 

LETTER XIX. 

MY DEAR — — , 

Without any violent exertions of my natu- 
ral vanity, I can easily imagine that the eye of 
mankind looks towards my political career; 
and that for want of a better subject, tliere 
may be some among them who amuse them- 
selves with forming conjectures concerning it. 
The ministry have attempted to feel my pulse 
upon the occasion, but without success, though 
I will tell you in confidence, that they have 
nothing, at present, to fear from me. In the 
great subject of this -day's politics, which 
seems to engulf every other, I am with them. 
I shall never cease to contend for the uni- 
versality and unity of the British empire over 



To 



all Its territories and dependencies, in every 
part of the globe. I have not a doubt of the 
legislative supremacy of parliament over every 
part of the British dominions in America, the 
Ilast and West Indies, in Ajrica, and over 
Ireland itself. 

1 cannot separate the idea of legislation and 
taxation; they seem to be more than twins; they 
were not only born but must co-exist and die 
together. The question of right is heard of no 
more; it is now become a questiom of power; 
and it appears to me that the sword will de- 
termine the contest. The colonies pretend to 
be subject to the king alone; they deny subor- 
dination to the state, and, upon this principle, 
have not only declared against the authority 
of parliament, but erected a government of 
their own, independent of British legislation. 
To support a disobedience to rights which 
they once acknowledged, they have already 
formed associations, armed and arrayed them- 
selves, and are preparing to bring the questien 
to the issue of battle. This being the case, it 
becomes highly necessary for us to arm also; 
we must prepare to quench the evil in its 
infancy, and to extinguish a e which the 

natural enemies of England v lot fail to feed 
with unremitting fuel, in ori^er to consume 
our commerce, and tarnish our glory. If wis^ 



X 



n 

measures are taken, this business will be soon 
completed, to the honour of the mother coun- 
try, and the welfare of the colonies; who, in 
spite of all the assistance given them by the 
House of Bourbon, must, unless our govern- 
ment acts Uke an ideot, be forced to submision. 

For my own part, I have not that high 
opinion of their Roman spirit, as to suppose, 
that it will influence them contentedly to sub- 
mit to all the horrors of war, to resign every 
comfort in which they have been bred, to re- 
linquish every hope with which they have 
been flattered, and retire to the howling 
wilderness for an habitation; and all for a dream 
of liberty, which, were they to possess to- 
morrow, would not give them a privilege supe- 
rior to those which they lately enjoyed ; and 
might, 1 fear, deprive them of many which 
they experienced beneath the clement legis- 
lation of the British government. 

1 do not mean to enter at large into the sub- 
ject, but, if ministers know what they are 
about, the matter may be soon decided; and in 
every measure which tends to promote such a 
desirable end, they shall receive all the poor 
heips I can ^ > them; I will neither sit silent, 
nor .;'emain ii, sj^'e. But if, by neglect, igno- 
ranee, or an -ttdecisive spirit, the latter of 
w.hich .^ rather ;-spect from them: should they 



'/2 

let the monster grow up into size and strength, 
my support shall be changed into opposition, 
and all my powers exerted to remove men 
from a station to which they are unequal. — Re- 
member this assertion — preserve this lettet — 
and let it appear in judgment against me, if I 
err from my present declaration. 

I remain yours, Sec. 



LETTER XX. 

It was very natural, in such a Strephon as 
you are, to imagine that I had hurried away to 
court the nymphs ; I mean the wood-nymphs 

of H- . Now, I have so Httle thought about, 

or regard for these ladies, that I had, at one 
time, determined to despoil their shade^ and 
make a profitable use of the oaks which shelter 
them. You will shriek at the idea like any 
Hamadryad ; but, in spite of shrieks or en- 
treaties, I had it in contemplation to be patri- 
otic, and give the groves of H to the 

service of my country. 

The system of modern gardening in spite of f 
fashion and Mr. JBroiuny is a very foolish one* \ 
The huddling together every species of 
building into a park or garden is ridiculous. 
The environs of a magnificent house sihould 
partake, in some degree, of the nece'^sary for- 



mality of the building they surround. This 
was Kent's opinion; and, where his designs 
have escaped the destruction of modern re- 
finement, there is an easy grandeur, which is 
at once striking and delightful. Fine woods 
are beautiful objects, and their beauty ap- 
proaches nearer to magnificence, as the mass 
of foliage becomes more visible; but to dot 
them with little white edifices, infringes upon 
their greatness, and, by such divisions and sub- 
divisions, destroys their due effect. The ver- 
dure of British swells was not made for Grecian 
temples; a flock of sheep, and a shepherd's 

I hut, are better adapted to it. Our climate is 

^ not suited to the deities of Italy and Greece, 
and in an hard winter I feel for the shuddering 

divinities. At H there is a Temple of 

Theseus, commonly called by the gardener, the 
Temple of Perseus, which stares you in the 
face wherever you go, while the Temple of 

I God, commonly called by the gardener, the 
Parish Church, is so industriously hid by the 
trees from without, that the pious matron can 
hardly read her pi^ayer book within. This was 
an evident preference of strange gods, and, in 

] my opinion, a very blasphemous improvement. 
Where Nature is grand, improve her grandeur- 

\ not by adding extraneous decorations, but by 
removing obstructions. Where a scene is 'm 
i D 



74 

itself lovely, very Utile is necessary to give it 
all due advantage, especially if it be laid into 
park, which undergoes no variety of cultiva- 
tion. 

Sto7v is, in my opinion, a most detestable 
place; and has in every part of it the air of a 
Golgotha; a princely one I must acknowledge; 
but in no part of it could I ever lose that 
gloomy idea. My own park possesses many 
and very rare beauties; but, from the design 
of making it classical, it has been charged 
with many false and unsuitable ornaments. A 
Classical park, or a classical garden, is as ridi- 
culous an expression as a classical pliimb pud- 
ding, or a classical sirloin of beef. It is an un- 
worthy action to strip the classics of their 
jieroes, gods, and goddesses, to grow green 
nmid the fogs of our unclassical climate. But 
the affectation and nonsense of little minds is 
beyond description. How many are there, who, 
fearful that mankind will not discover their 
knowledge, are continually hanging out the 
sign of hard words and pedantic expressions, 
like the late Lord Orrery, who, for some clas- 
sical reason, had given his dog a classical 
jiame; it was no less than Csesar! However, 
Caesar, one d.iy, giving his lordsliip a most un- 
ciijssicul bite, he bcized a cane, and pursued 
him round the room with great solemnity, and 



75 

this truly classical menace — "Ceesar! Caesar! if 
1 could catch thee, Caesar! I would give thee 
as many wounds as Brutus gave thy name-sake 
in the Capitol." This is the very froth of folly 
and affectation. 

Adieu, &c. 



LETTER XXI. 

Mr DEAR sm, 

I OBEY your commands with some reluc- 
tance, in relating the story of which you have 
heard so much, and to which your curiosity 
appears to be so broad awake — I do it un- 
willingly, because such histories depend so 
much upon the manner in which they are re- 
lated; and this, which I have told with such 
success, and to the midnight terrors of so many 
simple souls, will make but a sorry figure in a 
written narration. However, you shall have it. 

It was in the early part of 's life that he 

attended a hunting club at their sport, when a 
stranger of a genteel appearance, and well 
mounted, joined the chace, and was observed 
to ride with a degree of courage and address 
that culled foi'th the utmost astonishment of 
every one present. — The beast he rode was of 
amazing powers; nothing stopped them; the 
hounds could never escape them; and the 



76 

iiunlsman, who was left far behind, swore that 
tlie man and his horse were devils J'rotn helt. 
When the sport was over, the company in- 
vited this extraordinary person to dinner; he 
accepted the invitation, and astonished the 
company as much by the powers of his con- 
conversation, and the elegance of his manner^, 
as by his equestrian prowess. He was an ora- 
tor, a poet, a painter, a musician, a lawyer, a 
divine; in short, he was every thing-, and the 
magic of his discourse kept the drowsy sports- 
men awake long after their usual hour. At 
length, however, wearied Nature could be 
charmed no more, and the company began to 
steal away by degrees to their repose. On his 
observing the society diminish, he discovered 
manifest signs of uneasiness; he therefore gave 
new force to his spirits, and new cliarms to his 
conversation, in order to detain the remaining 
few some time longer. This had some little 
effect; but the period could not be long de- 
layed when he was to be conducted to his 
chamber. The remains of the company retired 
also; but they had scarce closed their eyes, 
when the house was alarmed by the most 
terrible shrieks that were ever heard; several 
persons were awakened by the noise, but, its 
continuance being short, they concluded it to 
proceed from a dog who might be accidentally 



It 



confined in some part of the house; they very 
soon, therefore, composed themselves to sleep, 
and were very soon awakened by shrieks and 
cries of still greater terror than the former. 
Alarmed at what they heard, several of them 
rung their bells, and when the servants came, 
they declared that the horrid sounds pro- 

1 ceeded from the stranger's chamber. Some 
of the gentlemen immediately arose, to inquire 
into this extraordinary disturbance; and while 
they were dressing themselves for that pur- 
pose, deeper groans of despair, and shriller 
shrieks of agony, again astonished and terrified 
them. After knocking some time at the 

j stranger's chamber-door, he answered them 
as one awakened from sleep, declared he had 
heard no noise, and, ^ather in an angry tone, 

\ desired he might nov be again disturbed. Upon 
this they returned to one of their chambers, 
and had scarce begun to communicate their 
sentiments to each other, when their conver- 
sation was interrupted by a renewal of yells, 
screams, and shrieks, which, from the horror 
of them, seemed to issue from the throats of 
damned and tortured spirits. They immedi- 
ately followed the sounds, and traced them to 
the stranger's chamber, the door of which 
they instantly burst open, and found him upon 
his knees in bed, in the act of scourging him- 
self with the most unrelenting severity, his 



78 

body streamiii,^ with blood. On their seizing 
his hand to stop the strokes, he begged them, 
in the most wringing tone of voice, as an act 
of mercy, that they would retire, assuring them 
that the cause of their disturbance was over, 
and that in the morning he would acquaint 
them with the reasons of the terrible cries they 
had heard, and the melancholy sight they saw. 
After a repetition of his entreaties, they re- 
tired; and in the morning some of them went 
to his chamber, but he was not there; and, on 
examining the bed, they found it to be one 
gore of blood. Upon further inquiry, the 
groom said, that, as soon as it was light, the 
gentleman came to the stable booted and 
spurred, desired his horse might be immedi- 
ately saddled, and appeared to be extremely 
impatient till it was done, when he vaulted in- 
stantly into his saddle, and rode out of the yard 
on full speed — Servants were immediately 
dispatched into every part of the surrounding 
country, but not a single trace of him could 
be found; such a person had not been seen by 
any one, nor has he been since heard of. 

The circumstances of this strange story 
were immediately committed to writing, and 
signed by every one who were witnesses to 
them, that the future credibility of any one, 
who should think proper to relate them, 
might be duly supported. Among the sub* 



79 

scribers to the trath of this history are some 
of the first names of this century. — It would 
now, I beUeve, be impertinent to add any- 
thing more, than that I am 

Yours, &c. 



LETTER XXII. 

1 THANK you most sincerely, my very dear 
friend, for your obliging congratulations on 
my late promotion; and I have no better way 
to answer the friendly counsels which accom- 
pany them, but by opening my heart to you 
upon the occasion, and trusting its sentiments 
with you. 

You knew my father, and I am sure you 
will applaud me in declaring that his charac- 
ter did real honour to his rank and his nature. 
A grateful fame will wait upon his memory, 
till, by some new change in human affairs, the 
great and good men of this country and period 
shall be lost to the knowledge of distant gene- 
rations. In the republic of letters he rose to a 
very considerable eminence; his deep political 
erudition is universally acknowledged; and as 
a senator both of the lower and higher order, 
bis name is honoured with distinguished vene- 
ration. In his private, as well as public life, he 
was connected, and in friendship, with the 



so 



lir$t men of the times in which he lived; and 
as a character of strict virtue and true piety, 
he has been universally held forth as the most 
striking example of this age. The idea of un- 
common merit accompanies all opinion of him; 
and to mention his name is to awaken the most 
pleasing and amiable sentiments. As you read 
this short and imperfect outline of his charac- 
ter, fill it up and do it justice. Now it will, 
perhaps, surprise you, when you are informed, 
Ihat the post in government which this great 
and good man most desired, and could never 
obtain, was the Chief Justiceship in Eyre, &c. 
The reverse of the picture is as follows; that 
your humble servant, and his gracious son, 
"whose character you perfectly know, has been 
appointed to this very post, in the infancy of 
his peerage, without an^ previous service per- 
formed, hint given, or requisition made on his 
part, and without the proposition of, and con- 
ditions on, the part of the minister, — When I 
wa^ surprised by the ofier, I was surprised 
also by a sudden and unusual suffusion on my 
cheeks, at the contrast of mine and my father's 
character — of mine and my father's lot. Indeed, 
so big was my heart on the occasion, that when 
the ministerial ambassador had left me, the 
sentiments of it burst faitli upon the first 
person I saw, xvho happened not to be a very 
proper receptacle for the reflections of virtue. 



There is a very great encouragement in this 
world to be wicked; and the devil certainly 
goes aboat in more pleasing shapes than one 
of a roaring lion. In the name of fortune, my 
dear friend, how and why are these things? Is 
it the increasing corruption of the times, or 
the weakness of government, that gives to 
dissolute men the meed of virtue; or do minis- 
ters think it expedient to give a sop to the 
mastiff whose growl might make them tremble? 
You, who have made men and manners your 
study, who have looked so deeply into the 
volume of the heart, and have acquired such 
an happy art of reconciling the apparent in- 
; consistencies of human affairs, must instruct 
i me. I wish you could improve and convert me! 
1 am not insensible to what is good; nay, there 
I are moments when the full lustre of virtue 
\ beams upon me. I try to seize it; but the gleam 
escapes me, and I am re-involved in darkness. 
The conflict of reason and passion is but the 
conflict of a moment; and the latter never 
fails to bear me off in triumph. 



Video meliora proboque 



Deteriora sequor. 

I am yours most truly, Sec. 

D2 



82 



LETTER XXlIt. 



I WISH that the Morning Post, and every 
other post that scatters such malignant, false, 
and detestable histories, in the bottomless pit, 
with its writers, printers, editors, publishers, 
collectors, and purchasers. To be the subject 
of an occasional paragraph is not worth a 
frown. It is a tax which every one in high 
station must pay, be he good, or be he bad, 
to that demon of calumny, who now has a 
temple prepared for his service at every 
breakfast table in the metropolis. But to be 
the sole theme of a scandalous chronicle, and 
to see it not only saved from oblivion, but 
raised into universal notice and reception, 
from its abusive histories of me, is a circum- 
stance big with every pain and penalty of 
mortification. To add to my distress, no means 
of satisfaction or revenge are in my power? 
and, if resentment were to weave a scourge, 
and I could use it to my wishes, 1 should only 
give new materials to prolong the tale. The 
business of silent contempt is above me; and 
the mode of conduct you recommend is, like 
St. t^ustin^s reason for belief, quia impossible 
est. I cannot enter an house where the page 
of my dishonour does not lie upon the table. 
Every man who meets me in the street, tells 



83 

me by his very looks that he has read it. I 
have overheard my own servants observing 
upon it, and the very chairman can repeat 
its tales. I expect every day that my horse, 
like Balaam's ass, will neigh, scandal at me; not 
indeed from celestial, but hellish intervention. 
Some steps, however, must be taken, and 
some method adopted to silence the cry. To 
bribe the hounds would produce a mortifica- 
tion almost equal to what I now suffer; but 
there is no divining how long the story may 
last, and the tota cantabitur urbe is terrible.— 
Bear it I cannot, and revenge is not in my 
power. The rascal keeps within the circle of 
privilege; and, if he should slip out of it, I am 
afraid that it would not answer my purpose to 
avail myself of his incaution. In short, I don*t 
know what to do. You will oblige me more than 
ever, in forming some wise resolutions for me, 
and in persuading me to execute them. Adieu! 



LETTER XXIV. 

MY DEAR FHIENI), 

Youn sensibility towards me during my late 
persecution, is a flattering mark of that affec- 
tionate esteem which you have ever borne me. 
I most sincerely thank you for it ; and have 
only to wish that the world knew I still retain 



84 

so warm a place in your heart. Such a cir- 
cumstance would serve as an antidote against 
the poison which has been instilled into the 
minds of mankind on my subject. The batte- 
ries of scandal are at length turned from me ; 
and some new object of their rage will, I hope, 
make their thundering attack upon me to be 
quickly forgotten. 

I love my country, its constitution, and its 
privileges, too well to say, write, or even 
think, any thing against that palladium of 
British freedom, the liberty of the press, 
though I have been such a sufferer by it. While 
it remainsj (and may it ever remain!) the people 
of England will have a security for those privi- 
leges which give them a superiority over every 
other nation. Perhaps the enormities of private' 
scandal should be checked, at the same time 
that, I think, it would be dangerous to suffer 
even an excrescence of any staple privilege 
to be cut off. The track of innovation widens 
every moment; and on this example, if it was 
once opened, there is no saying where it 
would end. 

A priest, 1 think, is said to have invented 
gun powder; and a soldier has the credit of 
first suggesting the art r^ printing; and I have 
heard wonderfuUy'curiousand profound obser- 
vations made upon the strange combination of 



85 

|the inventors and their inventions. But surely 
it does not require a moment's reflection to 
discover, that this improvement in the business 
of war, as well as in the republic of letters, 
could not have proceeded so naturally from 
any other characters. It is, I beheve, univer- 
, sally allowed, that, since the introduction of 
artillery and fire-arms, the trade of war is 
become comparatively innocent; slaughter no 
longer wades knee-deep in blood; and her 
sword is now no sooner drawn than it is satis- 
fied. A discovery, therefore, which has lessen- 
ed the carnage and horrors of battle, was most 
naturally produced by a minister of the gospel 
of peace. On the contrary, we have only to 
I examine the history of letters since the in- 
Ivention of printing, and lo! what an host of 
■polemical writers appear, armed with the 
most bitter spirit of mahce and resentment! 
j What feuds, both national and domestic have 
'arisen from it ! What rage has been inflamed ! 
llow many wars have been engendered! What 
disgraceful, inflammatory, and unchristian 
controversies maintained ! How many scandals 
of every kind have been propagated, and what 
passions have been incited by it ! &c. so that 
, the most free governments have been obliged 
to enact laws to restrain and controul it. Such 
j an invention, therefore, maybe said to pro- 
ceed, in its natural course, from one whose 



86 

pvofesslon is founded on the animosities, in- 
justic, and malevolence, of mankind. I doubt ' 
not but you will now agree with me, that the \ 
world is, as it ought to be, more indebted to I 
the priest than the soldier. You will tell me, \ 
perhaps, that this argument arises from the \ 
smarting of my wounds, whieh are not yet \ 
skinned over; I feel myself of a contrary opi- 'i 
nion; but I will quit the subject till not a scar '' 
remains, when I shall take tlie opportunity of '| 
some tranquil- hour to bring the matter, by 
your leave, into debatr with you. 

I remain, with great regard, &c. 



LET I ER XXV. 

MY DEAR , 

I MUST acknowkdge, notwithstanding I am 
treated with some Jegree of civiUty in it, that 
the dedication you mention is a wretched bu- 
siness, and disgraces the volume to which it is 
prefixed. You wonder I did not write a bet- 
ter for him myself; and I would, most assur- 
edly, have done it ; but among many excellent 
qualities which this dedicator possesses, he is 
a blab of the first delivery, and I dared not 
venture to trust him. 

The testamentary arrangement which ap. 
pointed him to the honourable labours of an 



87 

;ditor, took its rise from three motives ; — firsts 

mark a degree of parental resentment 
igainst an ungracious son ;— secondly, from an 
)pinion that a gracious nephew's well-timed 
latteries had created of his own understand- 
ng; — and, thirdly, from a design of bestow- 
ing upon this self-same gracious nephew a le- 
.jacy of honour from the publication, and of 
orofit from the sale of the volume. He is as 

)roud of the business as a new-made knight of 
lis title, is never easy but when he is receiv- 
ng incense from booksellers and their jour- 
leymen, and loves to be pointed at as a child 
)f science. I wish he may be contented with 
(lis present celebrity, though if I know him 
iright, this editorial business will awaken ideas 
|)f his having talents for a superior character, 
Ivud that he is qualified to publish his own 
jvorks with as much eclat as he has done those 
j )f another. If he attempts to climb the ladder 
of ambition in any, but particularly in a litera- 
iy way, he must fall. I have counselled him 
o be content ; and the booby gives it out that 
am envious of his reputation. Poor silly fool ! 

1 only wish the daw may keep the one poor 
eather he has got ; for, if he attempts any ad- 
lition to his plumage, the vanity will draw him 

' nto a scrape, in which he will be stripped as 

)are as Nature made him, 



But, to change my subject to a coxcomb of 

another sex ; Mrs. has clone what she 

has no right to do, and has said, what she is 
not authorized to say. It is not in the power, 
even of so able and so respectable an advocate 
as yourself, to work up any thing that has the 
resemblance ofa satisfactory justification. Your 
arguments, which are so powerful in the cause 
of truth, are the slightest of all cobwebs in 
support, or, 1 should rather say, in palliation 
of fiilsehood. This, among other things, is 
much to your honour, and I congratulate your 
disqualification to plead a bad cause. If yoa 
have been a volunteer on the occasion, I com- 
pliment your gallantry ; if you have been in- 
fluenced by the lady's request, I admire your 
ready fiiendship. You. have every merit with 
me ; and, to give you the satisfaction you so 
well deserve, I cannot but authorize you to set 
the dame at rest, and to hush her every fear. 
This is no small sacrifice ; for I have the most 
ample means of vengeance in my hands ; and, 
if it will advance your interests at her court, 
you have full permission to declare that my 
wrath has been averted by your interposition. 

Nullum memorabile nomen 

Fo?minea in pcena est nee habet Victoria lau-' 
dem. 

I remain very truly, Sec. 



89 



LETTER XXVI. 

You have won both your wagers. — In speak- 
ing of* the inhabitants of China I do make use 
of the word C'hiiieses, and I borrow the term 
from Milton, As to your first bet, that I used 
such an expression, your ears, I trust, will be 
grateful for the confidence you had in them. 
But your second wager, that if I did use it, I 
had a good authority, is very flattering to my- 
self; and I thank you for the opimon you en- 
tertain of the accuracy of my language. My 
imemory will not, at this moment, direct you 
to the page ; but you will readily find the word 
.n the index of JVe<wton^s edition of Milton. 
I Of all the poets that have graced ancient 
limes, or delighted the latter ages, Milton is 
ny favourite ; I think hini superior to every 
: )ther, and the writer of all others the best cal- 
culated to elevate the mind, to form a noble- 
^less of taste, and to teach a bold, command- 
ing, energetic language. I read him with de- 
, ight as soon as I could read him at all ; and, I 
emember, in my father's words, I gave the 
rst token of premature abilities in the peru- 
al of the Paradise Lost. I was quite a bo}', 
.'hen, in reading that poem, I was so forcibly 
truck with a passage, that I laid down the 
■ook with some violence on the table, and 



90 



look an hasty turn to the other end of the 
room. Upon explaining the cause of this emo- 
tion to my father, he clasped me in his arms, 
smothered me with embraces, and immediate* 
]y wrote letters to all his family and friends, 
to inform them of the wonderful foreboding I 
had given of future genius. Your curiosity 
msy naturally expect to be gratified with the 
passage in question ; I quote it, therefore, for 
your reflection and amusement — 

He spake : and, to confirm his words, out flew 
Milhons of flaming swords, drawn from the 

thighs 
Of mighty Cherubim: the sudden blaze 
Far round illumin'd Hell !" 

The two principal orators of the present 
age (and one of them, perhaps, a greater tiian 
has been produced in any age) are the Earls 
of Mansfield and Chathatn. The former is a 
great man ; Ciceronia7i, but, I should think in- 
ferior to Cicero. The latter is a greater man ; 
Dcniosthenian, but superior to Demosthenes. 
The first formed himself on the model of the 
great Roman orator; he studied, translated, 
rehearsed, and acted his orations ; the second 
disdained imitation, and was himself a model 
of eloquence, of which no idea can be formed 
but by those who have seen and heard him. 



91 

His words have sometimes frozen my young 
blood into stagnation, and sometimes made it 
pace in such a hurry through my veins, that 
1 could scarce support it. He, however, em- 
bellished his ideas by classical amusements, 
and occasionally read the sermons of Barrow, 
which he considered as a mine of nervous ex- 
pressions ; but, not content to correct and in- 
struct his imagination by the works of mortal 
men, he borrowed his noblest images from the 
language of inspiration. Mr. Edmund Burke 
also gives an happy dignity to parts of his 
speeches, a want of which is, in general, their 
only defect, by the application of scriptural 
expressions, 

j Though I have such bright and venerable 
examples before my eyes, I pursue a some- 
|What different, but not an opposite, track ; for 
[Miiton, from the excellence and form of his 
JA'orks, has every claimto the title of a classic; 
|ii'om the nature also of his principal subjects, 
[which are drawn from scripture, we may be 
iaid, in some degree, to read the sacred writ- 
ngs when his great poetical commentary of 
.hem (for so I shall call his Paradise Lost and 
\Regained) is the object of our studies. The 
1 jrations of tJicero, notwithstanding their cha- 
racter in the world, please, but do not inflame 
Tie. We are at too great a distance from the 



92 

period, and have not a sufficient idea of the 
manner of their delivery, to be affected by 
them. They are very fine compositions; and 
it is the evidence of their being compositions 
that is their chief fault; and i^ Lord Mansfield 
were to pronounce the best of them, in his 
best manner, I doubt much of their supposed 
effect. They chill the warmth of my feelings ; 
and I have often essayed, but in vain, to work 
up in me an elevation of mind and spirits from 
a repetition of the Roman orations. I must ac- 
knowledge that Lord BoUngbroke, a great and 
splendid authority, is against me, who, in lan- 
guage more animating than I could ever find 
in Tully's eloquence, declares, that no man 
who has a soul can read his orations, after the 
revolutions of so many ages, after the extinc- 
tion of the governments, and of the people for 
whom they were composed, without feeling 
at this hour the passions they were designed 
to move, and the spirit they were designed to 
raise. If this be true, in his lordship's sense 
of the expression, I have no squI; but 1 sus* 
pect the truth of this assertion, as I well know 
that he would, at any time, sacrifice a just cri- 
ticism to a brilliant passage. His character and ' 
genlous were both intemperate ; and, when 
his tongue or his pen were pleased with their ' 
subjects, he wasborne rapidly on by the stream ' 



93 



of eloquence, not considering or caring- wlii- 
ther he >vent» When his imagination was once 
kindled, it was an equal chance whether he 
obscured virtue, or dignified vice. The source 
of his delusive writings was an headstrong 
vivid fancy, which practised as great deceits 
jpon himself; as he had ever done upon man- 
bind. — But to return to my subject. 

For the life of me, I cannot read sermons 
2ven with Lord Chatham; and my hands are 
too unhallowed to unfold the sacred volume ; 
|3ut I find in Milton's poems every thing that 
;s sublime in thought, beautiful in imager}', 
jind energetic in language and expression. To 
,ittain a reputation for eloquence is my aim and 

■ny ambition ; and, if I should acquire the art 
j3f clothing my thoughts in happy language, 
|idorning them with striking images, or en- 

'orcing them by commanding words, I shall be 

ndebted for such advantages to the study of 
pur great British classic. 
1 I know you would not recommend my 

riends, the poels^ to take a leading part in the 
,jtudy of eleoquence. You may, probably, ap- 

)rehend that poetical pursuits would be apt to 
ijjive too poetical a turn to discourse as well 
jis writing; and to beget a greater attention 
jo sound, than to sense. Such an idea is cer- 
., ainly founded in truth ; and your objections 
l;re perfectly sensible, when an application to 



94 

the poets Is not conducted with judgment, and 
moderated by prosaic reading and exercises. 
— A little circumstance in point, which just 
occurs to rae, will make you smile. When my 
father had completed the first copy of his his- 
tory, the friends, to whom he sent it for their 
criticism.^nd correction, universally agreed in 
its being written in a kind of irregular blank 
verse, from the beginning to the end. He 
was much surprised at the information ; but, 
on examining his work, he found it to be true, 
and gave to the whole the excellent dress it 

now wears. Sir Robert R was so unfair 

as to impress some of the passages upon his 
memory, and has since been so ill-natured as 
to repeat them. — But to put a period to this 
long letter, I declare myself to be very angry, 
wlien you are but twenty miles from me, that 
you should not put your horses to your chaise, 
and be here in a shorter space of time than is 
necessary to fill up half a sheet of paper. You 
will do well to come and amuse yourself here, 
leaving gouty uncles and croaking aunts to 
themselves. There is more vivacity concen- 
trated in my little dell, than is to be found in 
all the ample sweets of your vale. As you are | 
musical, I will prepare a syren to sing to you, 
and you shall accompany her ui any manner |P 

you please. Adieu ! 

Yours most truly, &c. 



95 



LETTER XXVII. 



I CAXXOT yet fancy the suspected prelimi- 
naries of alliance between France and America; 
and I will tell you why : because I think it will 
not be the mutual interest of either of them 
to engage in such a treaty. The French finan- 
j ces are not in a state to justify the risking a 
war with England, which an open alliance with 
America must immediately produce. Mon- 
sieur de Maitpouz, and Monsieur de JVecker, if 
I am rightly informed, are of the same opinion. 
■ and, I believe, from nobler motives and bet- 
|ter reasons, are in opposition to those propo- 
;Sals which the A^nericans are said to have of- 
ifered, to induce France to give an avowed 
I support to their cause. My information goes 
I somewhat farther, and assures me, that the 
; opinions of the two statesmen already men- 
.tioned are supported by all the graver men 
land old officers in the kingdom. America, at 
'present, makes a very povverful and extraor- 
liinary resistance, and tJiere seems to be a spi- 
rit awakened in her people, which wili woful- 
■y prolong the period of her reduction. The 
^ contest is, at present, between a child forced 
nto resistance by what it calls tyranny, and a 
parent enraged at filial ingratitude, who. is re- 
jolved to reclaim his offspring by force and 



96 



chastisement. In such a state, Ihougii a mad 
spirit of rebellion may instigate revolted chil- 
dren to act against the parent, and the bre- 
thren of the house of theii* parent, the latter 
will go very reluctantly to the business ol 
bloodshed; and many a brave man will consi- 
der the duty of the soldier and the citizen as 
incompatible, and let the former sink into the 
latter. But the moment tliat America flies for 
protection to the arms o{ France, the case \vi! 
be changed ; every tie of consanguinity wil 
be then broken ; it will be impossible to dis- 
tinguish between them and their allies; they 
will be all the object of one common resent- 
ment ; and the Americans must expect, as they 
will surely find, an equal exertion against them 
as will be employed against their insiduous 
supporters. 

But tliis is not the only reason why I thinh 
America will maintain the contest better with- 
out the open support of France ,• 1 have ano- 
ther, in the natural aversion they bear to each 
other. No two civilized nations, in the same 
quarter of the globe, can bear a more differ- 
ent and clashing character than France and the 
revolted colonies. Fire and water would as 
soon blend their opposite elements, as the so- 
lemn, gloomy, unpolished American, with the 
g-ay, sprightly animated jF/e«cAm««. BesideSj 



9/ 



how will it be possible for the simple, sullen 
leaven of Calwiism to be kneaded in the same 
lump with the motley genius and complicated 
ceremony of Popery ? While the hope of in- 
dependence keeps alive the spirit of conten- 
tion, such considerations, if suggested at all, 
will, for a time, give way to their ambition ; 
1 but, should tlie object of it be attained, they 
would arise, on the first interval of repose, in 
all the bitterness of disunion, and bring on a 
scene of internal confusion big with greater 
horrors than they now experience. What will 
these deluded people think, and how will they 
act, who after manifesting such a soleain and 
; bold aversion to the power of a Protestant 
bishop, after having held forth the act of par- 
liament which gave to the conquered inhabi- 
j tants of Canada, a toleration of their religion, 
I as one of their justifications to rebellion ; I re- 
I peat again, what will be the conduct of these 
I people, when they see the cross adored in 
I their streets, and hear the benedictions and 
"anathemas of Rome pronounced in their cities. 
For my own part, I cannot conceive such 
an event as American independence : and, in 
my poor opinion, if it were to be given thera 
to-morrow, it would, in the end, prove a worse 
jpresent than the Stamp Act itself, with all its 
aggravated horrors. — The guards are ordered 
E 



93 



'a cross Ihe Atlantic, and — along with them. 
1 am glad you like him ; I thought my prophe- 
cy in that particular would be fulfilled. You 
knew Madame, I think, at Geneva. They both 
possess the same disposition to give a plea- 
sant turn to every thing. They put their son 
to board chez un Bourgeois de Dijon, and have 
never since troubled themselves about the 
boy, or the pension stipulated for his support. 
Luckily for the child, the man to whose care 
he was entrusted has taken a fancy to him, and 
declares, if he should be deserted by his pa- 
rents, that he will do his best to provide for 
!)im ; and our friends think it the best joke in 
the world. 

I have been to see the Justitia hulk, where 
•imong many other miserables, I saw poor 
IJignatn wear the hubit of a slave. He seem- 
ed disposed to speak to me ; but I had previ- 
ously desired the superintendant to request 
him, since it was not in my power to do him 
:jervice, to wave all appearance of his having 
known me. This mode of punishment offers 
a very shocking spectacle ; and, 1 think, must 
undergo some alleviation, if it be not entirely 
abolished. Ifit were to come again before par- 
liament, I should give the subject a very seri- 
ous consideration, and the measure a very se- 
rious oi>p(.sition. Is it not extraordinary, that 
the first public exhibition of slavery in this 



99 

kingdom — for so it is, however the siluatlon 
may be qualified by law — should be suggested 
by a Scotchman, and tliat the first regulator of 
this miserable business should be from the 
same country ? I do not mean to throw out 
any unpleasant ideas concerning any one 
whose lot it was to be born on the other side 
of the T'weed, but merely to state a fact for 
your observation. I have known many of my 
northern fellow subjects, and esteemed them. 
David Hmne possesses my sincere admiration ; 
but though the object of his writings was to 
remove prejudices, he himself possessed the 
strongest in favour of his country, and was, as is 
the great weakness of Scotchmen, so jealous 
of its honour, that I gave him great offence at 
Lord Hertford's at Raglty^ by asking him at 
what time of tlie >ear tiic harvest was housed 
in Scotland. My question arose from an inno- 
cent desire of being satisfied in that particular; 
but he conceived it to convey a suspicion, that 
there was no harvest, or at least no barns, in 
his country; and liis answer was slight and 
churlish. — Fare you well! If you hear any 
thing on the continent that at all concerns the 
present state of public aflTuirs, I beg you will 
not fail to favour me with the most early com- 
munication. 

I amy with great sincerity, Sec. 



100 



LETTER XX\ III. 

MT DEAR — — , 

I CANKOT assert it as a matter within my 
own knowledge ; but I have some reason to 
believe, that the late Earl of Jiath, at the close 
of life, manifested a kind of preference of the 
French to the English government. Upon 
what principles such an opinion was grounded, 
I cannot pretend to say ; it is impossible he 
could form it in the abstract ; it must arise, 
therefore, from pride of heart, degrading sen- 
timents of mankind, a natural love of power, 
or from some of those selfish motives which 
grow more strong and prevalent as men ap- 
proach the end of their days. In short, the 
French government might be more suitable 
to his character and dispositions ; and, though 
this conjecture is not in his favour, I believe 
it to have a foundation in truth. It is a com- 
mon case among mankind, where reason and 
judgment are perverted by the strength of 
habitual inclination. I will give you an exam- 
ple that shall please you. 

No one of common understanding, and who 
has the least idea of human affairs, or know- 
ledge of human nature, after a comparative 
examination of the Gospel and the Alcoran, 
will not give to the former a most instant, de- 



101 

cided, and universal preference. He will ad- 
mire the rational, and amiable doctrines of" the 
one, and as readily acknowledge the absur- 
dities of the other. Nevertheless, there are 
men of sense — I know some of them, and so 
do you, my friend— who would so far yield to 
the warm desire of habitual gratification, as to 
give their immediate consent to exchange 
Christianity for the religion oi' Mahomet. Lord 
JBath must have been indebted for the opi- 
nions given to him, to the triumph of an irra. 
tional self-love over a rational love of mankind; 
perhaps to the imbecility of his social affec- 
tions may be added the strange caprices of 
disappointed dotage. 

I have either read or heard an assertion, 
that it is impossible to find upon earth a socie- 
ty of men who govern themselves upon prin- 
ciples of humanity ; and I am forced to ac- 
knowledge, that the opinion will find a very 
powerful support in the customs of almost eve- 
ry country in the world. Whoever will con- 
sider with attention the histories of mankind, 
and examine, with an impartial eye, the con- 
duct of different nations, will be soon convinc- 
ed, that, except those duties which are abso- 
lutely necessary to the preservation of the hu- 
man species, he cannot name any principle of 
morals, nor imagine any rule of virtue, which, 



102 

ill some part or other of the world, is not di« 
rectly contradicted by the general practice of 
entire societies. The most polished nations 
have supposed, that they had an equal right 
to expose their children, as to bring them into 
the world. There are countries now existing, 
where the child feels it as an high act of filial 
duty to desert or murder his parents, when 
they can no longer contribute to their own 
support. Garcilasso de la Vega relates, that 
certain people of Peru make concubines of 
their female prisoners of war, nourish and 
carefully feed the children they have by them, 
on which they afterwards feast. But this is 
not all ; when the wretched mother can no 
longer furnish the delicacies of their horrid 
banquets from her womb, she shares the fate 
of her offspring, and becomes the meal of the 
barbarians, whose throats had been moistened 
with the blood of her children. 

It would be a matter of very little difficulty 
to fill a volume with the various inhumanities 
which mingle with the governments of the 
Mian, JJrican, and savage American nations 
of this day. The lilstorians, also, of ancient 
times, would greatly Increase the sad history 
of human calamity ; nor is the quarter of the 
world which we inhabit exempted from fur- 
nishing its quota to the miserable account. 



The various customs, religions, and goverr*- 
ments, which divide more enliglitened Europe^ 
might furnish a multitude of actions less bar- 
barous, indeed, in their appearance, but as re- 
prehensible in reality, and as dangerous in 
their consequences, as those already ricited. 

England, however, has this advantage over 
the rest of her neighbour-kingdoms, that the 
examples of inhumanity which she has produ- 
ced have arisen from an audacious abuse of 
her laws ; while those of other nations seem 
to arise from the nature of their constitutions. 
A code of such wise, rational, and humane le- 
gislation never was known in the world, as 
that which prescribes the rule of conduct, as 
well to the governors as to the governed, in 
our kingdom. The principles of it are found- 
ed in the perfection of human reason, and, in 
a certain degree, on that happy union of jus- 
tice and mercy which divines have given to 
the decrees of Omnipotence. — But my paper 
admonishes me to quit this interesting subject, 
or it will not leave me a space sufficient to as- 
sure you, with what real regard, I am 

Yours, S;c> 



LETTER XXIX. 

The first article of vour letter which tells 



104 

me of 's death, has very much affected 

me ; and, if it had arrived three hours sooner, I 
would have set off for London, to have dissi- 
pated the grave thoughts it occasions. I can 
hardly give credit to your account of her last 
moments ; she had much to regret; rank, for- 
fiine, friends and beauty, which St. Evremond 
says, a woman parts with more reluctantly than 
even life itself By this time, I trust, she has 
reached the Elysian fields, and, with the blest 
inhabitants of that delightful abode. 

On flowers repes'd, and with fresh garlands 

crovvn'd. 
Quaffs immortality and joy.— — 

However that may be, the event of her 
death is very sensibly felt by me. I shall miss 
her very much; not indeed as an acquaintance 
— for she would admit me only to her public 
assembUes — but, as an object of respect; and 
truly sorry am I that she has gone, for the sake 
of her sex, as she has not left one behind who 
can supply her place in my good opinion. I 
had a sort of occasional respect for every wo- 
man on her account, which, I fear, will be bu- 
ried in her grave. — She had nothing of female 
inconsistency about her, and every thing of fe- 
male delicacy. She conversed with the un- 
dei-standing of a man, but with the grace and 
elegance of her own sex. Her sentiments, Fan- 



105 

guag-e, and manners, were, like her own frame, 
in the image of man, but possessing every at- 
traction of female nature. — 1 will tell you a se- 
cret; she was the only woman who ever made 
me blush, and she once dyed my cheeks with 
such a crimson shame, that I feel them glow at 
this distant moment. * • « 



To maintain the quahties of goodness, ten- 
derness, affection and sincerity, in the several 
offices of life ; to disdain ambition, avarice, 
luxury and wantonness; and to avoid affecta- 
tion, folly, childishness and levity, is the con- 
summation of a female character, and was fully 
accomplished by the lovely woman who is no 
more. She little thought, I beUeve, that it 
would be an employment of mine to pen her 
eulogium; and you smile, I suppose, at my 
pretensions to describe female perfection. To 
tell you the truth, I strained very hard to pro- 
duce the foregoing period. My brain had a se- 
vere labour of it, and suffered no small pains 
in the dehvery. However, I now recommend 
the pious bantling to your care ; and, I thinks 
E 2 



106 

the midwife and the nurse will not contest the 
business of superior qualifications. 

I put an end to the pleasure of my acquaint- 
ance with — — at the Buke of Bolton's mas- 
querade at ffaciwood, some years ago, by what 
I thought a little simple love-making, but 
which she thought impudence ; and she has 
never suffered me to approach her since that 
time, but upon the most distant footing. You 
may know, perhaps, that I have got a terrible 
character for this self-same vice of effrontery, 
and, I am afraid, not without some little reason. 
It is, upon the whole, an imprudent mode of 
proceeding; and, though attended with more 
success than modest people may imagine, as 
you well know, never has a prosperous con- 
clusion. One failure tacks a miserable epithet 
to one's name for ever. In military^operations, 
the attack by storm sometimes effects great 
matters; but, on such a design, a repulse is 
sometimes fatal, and always attended with 
much loss and bloodshed. This has been the 
case with me in fields less glorious, but far 
more delightful, than those of Mars. 

The arrival of newspapers has caused a short 
interruption to my writing, and they acquaint 
me with a circumstance which you have omit- 
ted, that she died in child-bed. It was a cus- 
toiD, as I have read, among some of the ancient 



107 

nations to bury the infant alive with the mo- 
ther whose death it had occasioned. I shud- 
der at the idea ; nevertheless, in this particu- 
lar instance, I am disposed to vote all my ma- 
lice to the brat which has deprived the world 
of so bright an ornament. — Adieu !— -Shall I 
pay a compliment to your penetration, in sup- 
posing that you will perceive how tardily my 
pen has proceeded to the bottom of the page? 
— But this is literally the fact. The French 
proverb says, On ne park jamais de bonne foi^ 
quand on park Trial des femmes* I apprehend 
you would be unlucky enough to re,verse the 
sentiment, and apply it to 

Yours, &c. 



LETTER XXX. 

^ We all of us grew suddenly tired of our 
Wiltshire rustication ; and, without a dissen- 
tient voice, voted a party to Bristol, where I 
ate such excellent turtle, and drank such exe- 
crable wine, that, with the heat of the weather 
into the bargain, I was suddenly taken ill at the 
play-house, almost to fainting, and was oblig- 
ed to hurry into the air for respiration. Be- 
lieve me, I did not like the business. Cold 
sweats and shiverings, accompanied with in- 
ternal sinkings, gave me a better notion of dy- 



108 

ing than I had before, and made me think so 
seriously of this mortal life, that, on my return 
home, I shall take the opportunity of the first 
gloomy day to make my will, appoint execu- 
tors, and harangue my lawyer into low spirits 
on the doctrine of death and judgment. 

i exhibited myself— for none of the party 
wouio accompany me—at a public breakfast at 
^'^ Eot Wells, and sat down at a long table 
;i a number of animated cadavers, who de- 
voured their meal as if they had not an hour 
to live ; and, indeed, many of them seemed to 
be in that doleful predicament. But this was 
not all. I saw three or four groups of hectic 
spectres engage in cotillions ; it brought in- 
stantly to my mind Holbein's Dance of Death; 
and methouglit I saw the raw-boned scare- 
crow piping and tabouring to his victims. — So 
I proceeded to the fountain ; but, instead of 
rosy blooming health, diseases of every colour 
and complexion guarded the springs. As I 
approached to taste them, I was fanned by the 
foetid breath of gasping consumptions, stunned 
with expiring coughs, and suffocated with the 
effluvia of ulcerated lungs. — Such a living Gol. 
gotha never entered into my conceptions ; and 
I could not but lookuponthe stupendous rocks 
that rise in rude magnificence around the place, 
as the wide-spreadingjawsof an universal se- 
pulchre. 



109 

Lord Walpole told me he was therein attend- 
ance upon a daughter. I was glad to turn my 
back upon the scene — but I had not yet come 
to the conclusion of it; for as I was waiting for 
my chaise, two different persons put cards into 
my hand, which informed me where funerals 
were to be furnished with the greatest expedi- 
tion, and that hearses and mourning coaches 
were to let to any part of England. I immedi- 
ately leaped into my carriage, and ordered the 
postilion to drive with all possible haste from a 
place where I was in danger of being buried 
alive. 

After all, this tenancy of life is but a bad one, 
with its waste and ingress of torturing diseases; 
which not content with destroying the build- 
ing, maliciously torture the possessor with 
such pains and penalties, as to make him of- 
tentimes curse the possession. 

Man's feeble race what ills await ! 

Labour and penury — the racks of pain : 

Disease and sorrow's mournful train, 

And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate. 

If I continue this kind of letter any farther, 
you will tell me that I shall repent, found hos- 
pitals, and die a Methodist; and that Roches- 
ter's funeral sermon and mine will be bound 
up in the same volume, to the edification and 



110 

comfort of all sinnersof every enormity. Adieu, 
therefore, and believe me very truly 

Yours, &c. 



LETTER XXXr. 

I NEITHER hunt nor shoot; the former is a 
diversion which requires certain sacrifices thaj 
I cannot grant, and shall not enumerate; the 
latter suits me better, but is as little pursued 
as the other. The business and form, not to 
say tyranny, of preserving game, which is ne- 
cessary to establish a certainty of sport, is not 
to my way of thinking. The laws concerning 
game form a very unconstitutional monopoly ; 
but that is not all; the peace and society of 
provincial vicinities are more or less disturbed, 
by jealousies and disputes arising from the 
game, in every part of the kingdom. My coun- 
try employments are better than you imagine. 
I am reading, with great care and observation, 
the works of the Chancellor D*^gueseau of 
France. Many years ago, my father gave a vo- 
lume of them to me, desiring me to study it 
with attention, and consider the contents as his 
own paternal counsels. At that time I did nei- 
ther one nor the other; however, I am now,j. 
making ample amends for former neglect. The 
magistrate, the statesman, the lawyer, the man 



Ill 

of the world, the orator, and the philosopher, 
will find delight and instruction in these vo- 
lumes. I can say no more ; and what I have 
now said will add them to your library, if it 
does not already possess them. 

You must know that I am angry with you 
fur writing to me, or rather, for not coming 
instead of writing. Delay not to visit a place 
you so much admire, and to see a friend who 
loves and values you. We will study together 
in the morning, and court the muses in the 
evening, and you shall visit Papers urn by moon- 
light, and I will promise not to laugh at you. I 
propose to remain here a fortnight longer; but, 
if you will come to me, the time of my depar- 
ture shall be prolonged to your pleasure. I am, 
with real regard. 

Your most faithful, &c. 



LETTER XXXII. 

liT LOHB, 

Ik obedience to your lordship's commands, 
I have left no place unsearched, and have or- 
dered every possible inquiry to be made after 
the manuscript which my father read to you 
a short time before his death; but in vain. As 
he had determined upon a republication of his 
Miscellaneous Works, with the addition of 



some pieces which had neVer been printed; 1 
imagine he was cautious about preserving any 
papers or compositions that were not in his 
opinion sufficiently prepared for the press, lest 
the partiality of his surviving friends might 
give them to tlie world. 

I am apprehensive, my lord, that the manu- 
script in question shared the fate of many 
others, which he had not an inclination to 
finish, and did not choose to leave in an unfi- 
nished state. However, in my search, I found 
three or four large sheets of paper in a folio 
volume, which appear to contain extracts from 
the memoirs of the great men of the last and 
present centuries, and were, probably, some 
of the rude materials that formed the biogra- 
phical sketches which your lordship so much 
admired, and whose loss, on that account, gives 
me so much concern. These papers contain 
little more than scraps of characters. The prin- 
cipal -object of them seems to be the Duke de 
Vitri, Ambassador Plenipotentiary from the 
Fi'cnch king, for the peace of Nlmeguen; but it 
is impossible toform out of them any satisfactory 
account of that able negociator. That my let- 
ter, however, may not be entirely without 
amusement, I shall add a couple of quotations, 
which I have found among the rest, from the 
characters of very figuring personages on the 



113 

theatre of Europe. I call them quotations, as 
they are written in Italian, though I cannot 
name the author from whence they are taken, 
and are immediately followed by the charac- 
ter of Petro7iius from the annals of Tacitus. — 
The first of them relates to Cardinal Mazaririf 
and the second to Oli<cer Cromivell. I shall 
make no apology to your lordship for their lan- 
guage, as I have been informed that you utir 
<lferstand it equally well with your own. 
I am, my lord. 

With great respect 
I And obligation, &c. 

Cardinal Mazabin. 

I MOLTO la natura, non poco I'arte, tutto gli 

cnntrilrui la fortuna, che suppli con la dignita a 

\ cio che tnanco ne' natali. Egli haveva bella e 

\^rata presenZtty faccia licta Uf amabiley occhi 

^vavaci, gratia e decoro vgualmente se parlava^ o 

\taceva.—Piu chejino e capace in simular I'inten. 

-_ tioni, e dissimulare gli affetti. La fortuna lo 

iQstenne ad ogni passo, e se pur alcuna volta les 

hose al timor Isf al pericolo, non fu che per ani- 

marlo, eper trarnelo con maggiore trionfo. 

Chomweh. 

HUOMO grande ite i vitii, e nelle virtu, che 

wl* arbitrie di licentiosa fortuna visse con intra- 



bile contlnenza sobrio, casto, modesto, vigilante, 
indefesso, ina da estrema, ambitione agitato, ap- 
pena pote satiarsi col sangue del i?e, a coll^ op- 
pressione del regno. 



LETTER XXXIir. 

Hate you ever by chance looked into a book 
on the science of cookery ? If so, have you not 
observedj that the culinary disciple is instruct- 
ed, when certain quantities of gravy, or es- 
sence, or conserves are prepared, to put them 
hy for use? — Now, if we could manage our 
ideas in the same manner; if we covdd lock up 
our acquired thoughts and knowledge in a 
kind of intellectual store-room, from whence 
they might be drawn fortli for application, we 
should no longer be the slaves of a capricious 
recollection, which, at this hour offers its trea- 
sures with intuitive readiness, yields them on 
the morrow with sullen reluctance, and on the 
succeeding day may refuse them to our most 
arduous researches. The active events of life, 
however, seldom die on the remembrance ; 
and you must certainly be mistaken in associat- 
ing with me the circumstance you mention in 
your letter, which is at this instant before me. 
It is morally impossible that I should have for- 



115 

jotten it. My memory, perhaps, is the only 
acuity I possess, which has not at onetime op 
)ther deceived me; nay, so firm is its texture, 
hat the oblivious hours of courtship do not af- 
ect its wonted capacities— though to say the 
ruth, mine is a very drowsy progress. Assl- 
luity without love, tenderness without since- 
•ity, and dalliance without desire, afford the 
niserable, the hopeless, but the faithful pic- 
ure of my sluggish journey to the temple of 
lymen. However, to give something of co- 
our to the intervening hours between consent 
nd fruition, his lordship performs wonders, 
j.nd sighs and flatters for his heedless son; nay, 
jie tunes his neglected lyre, and sings the pow- 
iT of those charms, which, by an Anti-Circean 
ascination, are destined, by his fancy, to recal 
jny vagrant footsteps to the paths of virtue. 
!5ut, alas! I know not the resolution of the 
jJreek; I cannot resist the song of the Syrens; 
nd, partial as I may be to paternal music, it 
/ill prove, iu its influence upon me, far infe- 
ior to theirs. 

But all is not torpor and inanimation, and 
vhat love could not produce, vanity has inspir- 
,d. Two of the brethren of the house of my 
Dulcineamade her a visit last week, with a de- 
ign of turning her from the expectation of a 
'.oronet and from me. I need npt tell you that 



116 

they are honest, simple bourgeois, or the> 
would ifbt have meditated such a fruitless er 
rand to their ambitious sister. I was well assur 
ed that they would not convert her, and the 
fancy came across me to aim at converting 
them. In this business I so exerted myself ir 
every form of attention, flattery and amuse- 
ment, that I verily believe they returned to 
their home at Chipping.JVbrton, without en- 
forcing that remonstrance which was the mo- 
tive of their journey. — That Chipping-Norton, 
in whose neighbourhood I passed with my 
grandmother many of my youthful days, and 
to which I had never associated any idea but 
that of pigs playing upon organs — that chilly 
Chipping- J^'orton should yield one of its fonfner 
toasis to be the car a sposa of your friend ! — j 
What can your fertile fancy deduce from thei 
union of Hagley's genius, and the widowed 
protectress of the more than widowed LeasonvesP 
If offspring there should be, what a strange de- 
mi-theocrite will owe its being to such a hy- 
men ! Alas! my friend, this is but a dream fori 
your amusement ; the reality will offer to your 
compassionate experience the marriage of in- 
fatuation and necessity, whose legitimate and 
certain issue will be a separate maintenance, 
and perhaps a titled dowry. ! 

I have many and various communications to! 



iir 

make to you, but they must be reserved for 
personal intercourse. In the mean time, when 
you shall see me announced as being added to 
.he Benedicks of the year, save me, I beseech 
70u, save me your congratulations. Nothing 
S so absurd as the tide of felicitations which 
low in upon a poor newly-married man, be- 
bre he himself can determine, and much less 
he complimenting world, upon the propriety 
if them. Marriage is the grand lottery of life; 
fld it is as great a folly to exult upon entering 
nto it, as on the purchase of a ticket in the 
tate wheel of fortune. It is when the ticket 
3 drawn a prize that we can answer to congra- 
j Illation. — Adieu ! 



LETTER XXXIV. 

;t deak , 

If I am not very much mistaken, your libra- 
jT-table is always furnished with an interleav- 
d Bruyere, on whose blank pages you amuse 
Durself with extending the ideas of that cele- 
(■ated writer, or directing them to modern 
jplications. I am, therefore, to offer my name 
) an addition to your collections, and to de- 
re that in your scholia on that excellent 
ork, I may furnish a trait to his admirable 

laracter of the absent man. 



118 

On the day of my marriage, a day— bu 
po more of that ! — After the nuptial benedic 
lion was over, and we were returning to ou 
equipage, instead of being the gallant Bene 

dick, and conducting the new-made Mrs. L 

to her coach, I slouched on before, and wa 
actually getting into the carnage, as if I hai 
been quite alone ; but recollecting myself, a 
my foot was upon the step, I turned round ti 
make my apology, which completed the busi 
ness, for 1 addressed the bride in her widow 

cd name, with " My dear Mrs. P , I bei 

ten thousand pardons," and so on. This fit o 
absence was as strange as it proved ridiculou 
— an omen, perhaps, of all the ungracious bu 
siness which is to follow. You may first laugl 
at this little foolish history, and then, if yo 
please, apply it to a more serious purpose. Bu 
this species of absence is an hereditary virtue 
— A virtue ! say you ? — Yes, Sir, a virtue ; fo 
it is a mark of genius, and my Right HonouK 
ble Father possesses it in a most flattering dt 
gree. I will present you with a most remarks 
ble example, which you may also add to th 
composition of your modern Theophrastu 
His lordsiiip was about to pay a morning sacr 

fice at the shrine of M , and a large bunc 

of early pinks lay upon his toilette, which wer 
to compose the offering of the day. With thos 



119 

antique or professional beaux, who wear tiie 
tye or large flowing wig, it appears to be con- 
venient, in the ceremony of their dress, that 
the head should bring up the rear, and be co- 
vered the last. The full-trimined suit was put 
on, the sword was girded to his side, the cha- 
peau de bras was compressed by liis left arm, 
the bunch of pinks graced his right hand, and 
his night-cap remained upon his pate. The 
servant having left the room the venerable 
peer, forgetful of his perukean honours, would 
actually have sallied forth into the street in full 
array and en bonnet de mat, if his valet de cham- 
bre had not arrived, at the critical moment, to 
prevent his singular exit. I was present ; but 
my astonishment at his figure so totally sus- 
pended my faculties, that he would have made 
the length of Curzon street before I should 
have recovered any power of reflection. I was 
accused, as you may suspect, of a purposed in- 
attention, in order to render his lordship ridi- 
culous ; and I was told upon the occasion, that, 
although this kind of occasional absence of 
mind might furnish folly with laughter, it ge- 
nerally arose from that habitual exertion of 
thought which produces wisdom. You may 
congratulate me, therefore, o;; the prospect of 
my advancement to the title of sage, 
I am already married, and what is to follow 



120 

God alone knows. Strange things daily happen 
dans ce bas monde^ and things more strange 
may be behind. I have such a budget to open 
for you ! — but that discovery must be reserv- 
ed till we meet. Suffice it to say at present, 

Qujedam parva quidem, sed non toleranda raa- 
ritis. 



LETTER XXXV. 

I CONGRATULATE you, with no common sin- 
cerity, on having got most completely into a 
scrape, from whence all your finesse and pm- 
dent demeanour will not be able to extricate 
you. I have seen you, more than once, venture 
upon a fliglit which left my effrontery far be- 
hind, while 1 could not but envy you the ad- 
vantages which public prepossession in your 
favour gave you over me. Frequently have I 
blasphemed my stars, for not having given me 
the art of saving appearances, which you so 
eminently possess, but I have now good reason 
to hope, that you have, at length, fallen from 
your height, and will be obliged in future to 
roll in the mire with myself, and a few others 
of our common nature. The devil, in tiie lan- 
guage of the proverb, having long owed you a 
grudge, has taken a very fair opportunity to pay 



121 

. ■.';. in esjj.v .. 

it. You may now exclarim, on youir »,-r«.<«trcc 

into our Pandsemonium, 

Hail, horrors, hail! and thou, profoundcst hell. 
Receive thy new possessor. 

For your consolation, however, I shall inform 
lyou, that, before the period of my present in- 
corrigible humour, T was once in a state of dis- 
advantage, very similar, in its circumstances 
and effects, to that which has now overtaken 
you. You must know, then, that some years 
jgo I had formed an unlucky plan to mortify 
imy Right Reverend Uncle, who had taken 
i jome authoritative liberties with me, without 
'jiving him a fair opportunity to express his re- 
uentment. This was no less than an attack upon 
he temporal piivijege of episcopacy, in pos- 
essing a seat in the House of Lords. I had 
ome thouglits of my own upon the subject, 
tut I had fortunately added to their number 
nd importance, from the accidental perusal 
f a republished tract on the conduct of., our 
ishops through upwards of twenty reigns, 
j'hich unanswerably proved, that, during so 
Ung a period, they had almost uniformly ma- 
ifested themselves to be foes to rational liber- 
'. — I took up the argument in a very general 
ew, urged it with modesty, and, what was 
^, btter, with security, as, in case it had been 
F 



122 

rt^**u«f4'Wrtb. ang-er, I was armed with the 
.iphilon p*" my fMTuer, who was present, and, io 
his Persian Letters, has written to the same pur- 
pose. In short, I enjoyed all the triumph tlmt 
my malicious expectation could have framed. 
Th€ prelate grinned with vexation, but was 
forced to acquiesce in silence, and I had my 
revenge. But, not many days after, when my 
resentment towards this reverend relation had 
been lost in its fruition, a trifling circumstance 
happened, which his vigilant anger gladly 
seized, in order to heap upon me every indig- 
nity which his truly christian spirit was capa- 
ble of producing. As a family party of us were 
crossing the road on the side of Hagley Park, 
a chaise passed along, followed by a couple of 
attendants with French horns. Who can that 
be ? said my father. Some itinerant mounte- 
bank, replied I, if one may judge from his mu- 
sical followers. I really spoke with all the in- 
difference of an innocent mind: nor did it oc- 
cur to me, that the Right Reverend Father in 
God, my uncle, had sometimes been pleased 
to travel with servants accoutred with similar 
instruments. 

But evil on itself will soon recoil, 

und my recollection was soon restored to me 
t>y a torrent of abuse, which was, in length. 



)2I 



violence, and, I had almost said, in expression, 
equal to any sacred anathema of popish re- 
sentment. In short, I was cursed, damned, and 
sent to the devil, in all the chaste periphrasis 
of a priest's implacability. The whole of the 
business was of a very singular nature ; he 
availed himself of an inoffensive occurrence ta 
let loose his resentment at a past offence ; 
while I, in a state of actual innocence, sunk 
beneath the consciousness of my past guilt. 
This last part of the story is, I presume, ia 
perfect unison with your present feelings. — 
liut, to conclude with a serious observation, 
be assured, my friend, that, however rich, 
great, or powerful a man may be, it is the 
height of folly to make personal enemies of ^ 
any, but particularly from personal motives; 
for one unguarded moment — and who could 
support the horrors of a never-ceasing, suspi- ^ 
cious vigilance ! — may yield you to the revenge 
of the most despicable of mankind. From a 
very unpleasant experience of my own, I 
should, most sincerely, counsel every young 
man, who is entering on the theatre of the 
world, to merit the good opinion of mankind, 
by an easy, unaffected, and amiable deport- 
ment to all, which will do more to make his 
walk through hfe respectable and happy, than 
those more striking and splendid qualities^ 



124 

which are for ever in the extremes of honour 
or disgrace. — Adieu! — I shall be curious to 
hear of the progress you make in the thorny- 
paths of contrition ; and whether the fruits of 
it will be adequate to the humiliating penal- 
ties you must have undergone. 

I am, with great regard, 

Yours, &c. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

I SINCERELY lament with you the death of 
Dr. Goldsmith, as a very considerable loss to 
the learned, the laughing, and the sentimental 
world. His versatile genius was capable of pro- 
ducing satisfaction to persons of all these vary- 
ing denominations. But I shall, without hesi- 
tation, combat the opinion which you derive 
from the insolvent state in which he died, that 
genius and talents meet with an ungrateful re- 
turn from mankind, and are generally seen to 
struggle with continual and insuperable diffi- 
culties, Plautus is related to have turned a 
mill ; Boethius died in a gaol ; Tasso was in 
constant distress; Cervantes died of hunger; 
and our Otway from too eager an indulgence 
of that appetite ; Camoens ended his days in an 
hospital; and Vaugelas left his body to the 



125 

surgeons to pay his debts as far as It would go. 
I could fill my paper with a melancholy detail 
of genius in misfortune; but it would require 
a volume of no common size to examine into 
the causes of such an affecting branch of human 
distress ; and if a work of that nature were to 
be composed, it would prove no more than 
what we already know, that genius is not ex- 
empt from human failings, and frequently pos- 
sesses them in a degree superior to ordinary 
talents and common dulness. An improvident 
spirit, and disdam of reflection, are no uncom- 
mon attributes of that character; audi need 
not inform a child of ten years old, that the 
dullest Rosniante, who keeps on his way, will 
sooner arrive at his destined end, than the 
fleetest courser of Newmarket, who has taken 
a different direction. 

An unenlightened and barbarous age may 
deny bread to men of understanding ; but we 
have the happiness to live in the full blaze of 
reason and knowledge. At this period, the 
man of genius, as well as the less learned cha- 
racter, is equally the framer of his own for- 
tune ; and it must arise from some inherent 
deficiency in both, when the means of com- 
fortable existence, to say no more, are remote 
from them. This age is the most favourable 
that has ever been known in the annals of time, 



126 

for men of genius, talents and skill, in any and 
every branch of science and art. To come 
home, however, to your subject ; tell me, I 
beg of you, in what respect Dr. Goldsmith was 
neglected. As soon as his talents were known, 
the public discovered a ready disposition to 
reward them ; nor did he ever produce the 
fruits of them in vain. His mode of life is ge- 
nerally known ; the profits of his labours are 
no secret, and the patronage beneath which 
he, some time, flourished is a matter of pub- 
lic notoriety : nor shall I swerve from truth in 
the declaration, that he was encouraged -equal 
to his merits, whatever they may have been ; 
and that the public were ready to increase 
their favour in proportion to his exertions. — 
Ask your bookseller what Dr. Goldsmith did 
acquire, and what he might have acquired, by 
his writings : continue the question with re- 
spect to the manner in which many of them 
were produced, and what was the spring which 
generally set his talents in motion. The re- 
spective replies will be sufficient to convince 
you, that, if your favourite author died in po- 
verty, it was because he had not discretion 
enough to be rich. A rigid obedience to the 
scripture command of Take no thought for to- 
tnorrotVf with an ostentatious impatience of 
coin, and an unreflecting spirit of benevolence,. 



lit 

occasioned the difRculties of liis life, and the 
insolvency of its end. He might have blessed 
himself with a happy independence ; enjoyed, 
without interruption, every wish of a wise 
man ; secured an ample provision for his ad- 
vanced age, if he had attained it, and have 
made a respectable last will and testament ; 
and all this without rising up early, or sitting- 
up late, if common sense had been added to 
his other attainments. Such a man is awakened 
into the exertion of his faculties but by the im- 
pulse of some sense which demands enjoy- 
ment, or some passion which cries aloud for 
gratification ; by the repeated menace of a 
creditor, or the frequent dun at his gate ; nay, 
should the necessity of to-day be relieved, the 
procrastinated labour will wait for the neces- 
sity of to-morrow ; and if death should over- 
take him in the interval, it must find him a beg- 
gar, and the age is to be accused of obduracy 
in suffering genius to die for want ! If Pope 
had been a debauchee he would have lived in 
a garret, nor enjoyed the attic elegance of his 
villa on the banks of the Thames. If Sir Joshua 
Reynolds had been idle and drunken, he 
ipight, at this hour, have been acquiring a 
scanty and precarious maintenance by painting 
coach-pannels and Birmingham tea-boards. 
Had not David Hume possessed the invariable 



128 

temper of his country, he might have been the 
actual master of a school in the Hebrides ; and 
the inimitable Garrick, if he had possessed 
Shuter's character, would have acquired little 
more than Shuter's fame, and suffered Shu- 
ter's end. — Name me a man of genius in our 
days, who, if he has been destitute of inde- 
pendence, had a right to complain of any one 
but himself. You may tell me that Lloyd died 
in a gaol ; and I believe, from every thing I 
have heard of that very ingenious gentleman, 
that his fate would have been the same, if he 
had been born to the inheritance of an ample 
fortune. You will add, perhaps, the name of 
your very learned friend Morell. He certainly 
deserves well of, and is esteemed by, the learn- 
ed world ; but the acute critic and profound 
grammarian seems to be impelled, rather by 
the love of science than the desire of gain— is 
generally in the habit of frugal contentment, 
and hides himself in that shade of retirement, 
vvliere the learned few alone can find him. I 
am, however, entirely of your opinion, that he 
merits a less restrained situation than he pos- 
sesses ; and I agree with you in not forgiving 

Dr. B for a breach of justice in opposing 

his election to a fellowship at Eton. Such a 
prrinotion would have been a suitable reward 
fwi liis i;>bours, and have afforded him that 
ample independence, and learned retread:- 



129 

which would have left his closing life without 
a wish. B— - was the most able schoohnaster 
that ever grasped the birch ; and I am sorry- 
he should disgrace his succeeding and higher 
office, by opposing, as 3'ou tell me, more than 
once, the entrance of a man into his college, 
the circumstances of whose life and character 
gave him so fair a claim to the preferment 
which he soUcited. But this ill treatment of 
your friend — for I tliink it such — is not appU- 
cable to the age, but to the folly of a vain man, 
who finds a consolation for his disappointed 
ambition in the despotic sway of a college, 
wherein he will not suffer a man to enter, 
whose character announces the least gleam of 
an independent spirit. 

Learning and fine talents must be respected 
and valued in all enlightened ages and nations; 
nay, they have been known to awaken a most 
honourable veneration in the breasts of men 
accustomed to spoil, and wading through blood 
to glory. An Italian robber not only refused 
the rich booty of a caravan, but conducted it 
imder his safeguard, when he v/as informed 
that Tasso accompanied it. The great Duke 
of Marlborough, at the siege of Cambray, gave 
particular orders, that the lands, &c. of the ad- 
mired Feneloiiy archbishop of the diocese^ 
^Quld not be profaned by the violence of war,- 
F2 



130 

Caesar, the ambitious Caesar, acknowledged 
Tulfy's superior character ; for that the Roman 
orator had enlarged the limits of human know- 
ledge, while he had only extended those of his 
country. But to proceed one step higher. 

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare 
ThehouseofPindarus, when temple and tower 
Went to the ground. 

Rest then assured, my friend, when a man 
of learning and talents does not, in this very 
remunerative age, find encouragement, pro- 
tection, and independence, that such an unna- 
tural circumstance must arise from some con- 
comitant failings which render his labours ob- 
noxious, or, at least, of no real utility. — Adiea, 
my dear Sir. — A long letter may admit of an 
excuse on a subject which would fill a large 
volume. 

I am, with truth, 

Your faithful humble servant. 



LETTER XXXVIL 

Indeed, my dear friend, you mistake the 

matter : irony is not my talent, and B says 

I have too much impudence to make use of it. 
It is a fine rhetorical figure ; and, if there were 
a chance of attaining the manner in which J^X- 



131 

nius has employed it, its cultivation would be 
worth my attention. But you add an harsh in- 
justice to real error, when you suppose that I 
have employed any powers of raillery 1 may- 
possess, on the subject of her most excellent 
majesty. I recollect the conversation which, 
produced this report to my disadvantage, and, 
if it were true, to my dishonour. 1 can easily 
despise the malice of those who understand 
and misrepresent me ; but that ignorance 
which both misunderstands and misrepresents, 
is mortifying in the extreme. I should really 
think it little less than blasphemy to speak ill 
of a princess who deserves so well. The queen 
does honour to the British throne : she has a 
right to the place she possesses in the the 
breast of every reflecting Englishman ; and it 
has ever been my opinion, that her character 
unites the royal virtues of her station, with the 
most amiable qualifications of her sex. Nor 
have I ever been disposed to speak unfavoura- 
bly of the ladies who attend her person, or 
compose her suit. There are, 1 must own, half 
a dozen figures of her household who are ob- 
jects of my pity ; and the strain of commisera- 
tion which broke from me on their subjects, 
has been represented, 1 find, as a contemptu- 
ous raillery of their royal mistress. My memo- 
ry will serve me, I believe, to recollect the ge- 



132 

Tieral tenour of my discourse on the occasion, 
lich 1 shaJl offer to your candid interpreta- 

^ DoiJjager Lady Toimiseridy as you well 
'uidts the human species into men, 

(.n, and h ; and where is the crime, if 

1 parody on her ladyship's logic, and apply it 
to the division of her Majesty's household into 
men, women, and maids of honour? Nor will 
it be ditlicalt to justify this new line of distinc- 
tion, if we consider the peculiar offices which 
compose the duty, and <he singular privileges 
which reward the service, of these courtly 
virgins. 

To make up, at least, two court suits in a 
year; to dance as many court minuets in the 
same space; to sidle, on days of duty, through 
the presence chambers, at the tail of a royal 
procession; to take her place in an established 
corner of the drawing-room; to say yes. Sir, 
or no, Sir, and curtesy, when she is noticed 
by the king ; to say yes, Mudam, and no. Ma- 
dam, and curtesy, when the queen does her 
the same honour ; to make an occasional one 
of six large hoops in a royal coach, and to aid 
the languor of an easy party in a side-box at a 
royal play ; compose the principal labours of a 
maid of honour's life. — But they are not with- 
out their rewards. — A moderate salary, and a 



thousand pounds when Miss gets a husband ; 
an apartment in a palace, and, I believe, a din- 
ner from a royal kitchen ; in the rotation of 
six weeks, a seven days possession of a royal 
coach, a royal coachman, and a shabby pair of 
royal horses, for the purpose of shopping in 

i the city, paying distant visits, airing in the 
king's road, and the being set down at the 
very gate of Kensington gardens, while wo- 
men of the first fashion are obliged to trip it 
over a hundred yards of greensward between 
their coaches and the place of admittance ; to 
take place of baronets' daughters; to go to 
plays, operas and oratorios, gratis ; to have 
physicians without fees, and medicines without 

j an apothecary's bill ; to chat with lords and 
grooms of the bed-chamber around the fire of 
an anti-chamber ; to stroke the beardless face 
of a new-made page ; and, perhaps, to receive 

I an heir-apparent's first effort at flirtation, con- 
stitute the various privileges of a maid of ho. 
nour. 

This brief history, my dear friend, you well 
know to be founded in fact, and will, there- 

' fore, be ready to applaud the tender pity I feel 
for these virgin automatons. I have never seen 
them bringing up the rear of a royal train, but 
each of them has appeared to bear, in legible 

' cliaractei's^ on her forehead, Who vaill marry 



1S4 

me P Nevertheless, upon the most favourable 
average, not one in three years, during the 
present reign, has been rewarded by Hymen; 
which, in their particular situation, it is as pi- 
tiable a circumstance as can be found in the | 
long catalogue of female mortifications. A lady 
of the bed-chamber is obliged only to a par- f 
tial duty ; and, during the short period of her ' 
attendance, is, in some degree, the companion ■ 
of her royal misiress ; while the virgins of ho- I 
nour are not admitted, as I hav2 been inform- 
ed, to stick a pin in a royal handkerchief. Even | 
the women|of the same department figure only 
in her Majesty's cast-off gowns on royal birth- | 
days ; but these poor persecuted damsels are \ 
the common hackneys of drawing-room pa- ' 
rade ; whether ill or well, in humour or out of 
humour, by day -light, or by candle-light, they 
are obliged through three parts of the year, to i 
be on the continual stretch of state-ofl^icial ex- ' 
hibition. 

I remember, when I was little more than a 
boy, to have seen a young lady in training for ! 
this important ofl^ice ; and the whole of that 
serious business consisted in nothing more than i 
a practical lecture upon entrances and exits, 
the language of courtesies, and the art of con- 
ducting a large hoop in all modes and forms 
of possible pliancy. I laughed then as boys 
laugh, and had some unlucky thoughts in my j 



135 

head, which were not arrived at maturity ; at 
this period I would wilhngly give an opera-sub- 
scription to be present at a similar exercise. 

After this manner did I treat the honoura- 
ble subject of her Majesty's honourable vir- 
gins; and httle did I think that it would beget 
a long admonitory epistle from you, to warn 
me against speaking evil of dignities. My wit, 
such as it is, has never directed a single glance 
at the throne ; and I have received the wel- 
come testimony of your applause, more than 
once, for exerting the full force of my under- 
standing to support the wishes of it. You have 
my ready leave, my dear friend, to laugh with 
me, and at me — to reprove and to admonish 
me ; but I must entreat you to relax your 
proneness to believe every idle tale which is 
fabricated to my dishonour. 

I am, Sic. 

LETTER XXXVIII. 

I ^ Your usual accuracy has failed you in your 
suggestions concerning the rise and rapid pro- 
gress of Mr. D t's fortune. The history of 

, that gentleman's advancement to his present 
I affluence, if my immediate recollection does 
I not fail me, is as follows. 
I That he was appointed to his first employ- 
ment in the service of government by my fa- 



136 

tiler's interest is true ; and it may, perhaps, 
have been procured for him from the motives 
which current opinion has assigned ; but of 
this I do not pretend to be better informed 
than the rest of the world. Thus placed in a 
situation of little or no leisure, he was left, I 
believe, by our family patronage, to look for 
any future promotion from his own industry, \ 
the chance of succession, or the casual boon i 
of fortune. The latter was disposed to smile j 
upon him, or it may be said with more pro- ' 
priety, to reward the prudent modesty with ' 
which he retreated from her first advances, to | 
secure her greater favours. In the usual course \ 
of promotion, he had an acknowledged claim \ 
to succeed to a vacant place of no inconside- f 
rable profit. On this occasion, Lord Holland,! 
for some particular reason which 1 have for- j 
gotten, or perhaps never heard, wished to 
make an irregular appointment in favour of' 
some other person; and, to comply with his 

lordship's wishes, Mr. D wisely waved his^ 

right of succession. That nobleman, who ne- 
ver suffered a good office to be long unreturn- 
ed, soon after procured him to be named com- 
Hiissury-general to the expedition then pre- 
paring to attack the French West India islands. 
The success which attended it, together with 
the regular profits of his appointment, placed 
him in a situation, with respect to fortunep 



with which, it may be imagined, he was more 
than satisfied ; and I have been told that he 
then looked no farther. But Lord Holland ne- 
ver thought he did enough for any one that 
had obliged him; and I am greatly mistaken, 

[if his influence did not name Mr. D to the 

same employment in the formidable armament 
which was sent against the Havanna and suc- 
ceeded. The fortunes acquired by that cap- 

jture are well known, and Mr. D 's was 

among the largest of them. On his return to 

England, he soon began to display a love of 

^ostentation, which he indulged, however, as I 

j understand, without injuring his fortune ; for 

jihough George has no small share of vanity, it 

iias seldom operated so far as to make him in- 

1 attentive to the summum bonimi of life. He 

iptiilt a fine house in Portman square, and pur- 

jhhased the very capital estate of Tong-Castle, 

\ n Shropshire, of the Duke of Kingston. He 

\ mmediately renewed, or rather improved, the 

jiincient form of the decayed edifice, adorned 

.'vith the venerable decorations of Gothic ar- 

I hitecture, beautified its surrounding lawns, 

j-.nd conducted through them a long extent of 

ine water, which flows on three sides of the 

! lately edifice. The castle is a very large 

I'uikling, contains many very capacious apart- 

f;ients, and is furnished with a profusion of 



138 

pictures and splendid upholstery. Though It ^ 
is not situated in a fine part of the country, 
yet, taken in ali its circumstances, it may lay 
no small claim to the character of magnifi- 
cence. The owner of it might have built a 
new and more commodious house, for much , 
less money than has been expended in the re- j 
parations of the old one ; but the word castle , 
is a sounding word ; it was in unison with Mr. 
D 's notions of grandeur; and, apprehen- 
sive that this favourite title might, by degrees, | 
be forgotten with the lofty turrets and stately; 
battlements, he resolved to clothe them in^ 
more than pristine grandeur, and thus secure,] 
their ancient, honourable name, till time ori 
chance should destroy them for ever. Some of 
my old neighbours positively assert, that theyj 

remember to have heard George D de-, 

clare, when he was a youth, that he hoped., 
one day or other, to be possessed of a larger| 
house than JIagley; and they insist upon it, 
that he gives such great extent to the limits, 
of Tong- Castle, merely to fulfil his own predic- 
tion. — But this by the way. — The world in ge- 
neral, who were not acquainted with the am- 
bition of his early days, have thought that by| 
this creation of splendour, he hoped to allure^ 
some lady of noble birth and great connexions 
to become the mistress of it. The bait offered 



135 

' so handsome a man as he certainly is, would, 
all probability, have been soon taken, bat, 
this particular, expectation has been very 
uch disappointed ; for he has actually made 
kind of half-runaway match with a little qua- 
;r of eighteen years of age, and educated in 
• the rigour of her sect. She has no preten- 
5ns to beauty — I write merely from informa- 
)n— but possesses a very agreeable person, 
ith a most amiable simplicity, and loves her 
tsband to idolatry. I have heard your friend 
ounsellor Day speak in high terms of her fa- 
er, as a man of excellent understanding, po- 
e manners, and generous dispositions. Since 
is marriage, the superb service of plate very 
Idom makes its appearance, and the master 
'the noble castle, as I am told, now lives in a 
>rner of it, with a small party of his relations, 
id seems to be growing into a disregard of 
.e intrigues and fashions of public life. His 
'Other is the parson of my parish, and is cal- 
d Doctor John.- but the divine and the squire 
y not hold a very friendly intercourse. 
I rather think that this little piece of bio- 
•aphy is pretty well founded ; if, however, it 
jould possess any errors, which may be the 
ise, I beg leave to assure you that they are 

Jt of my invention. As to Mr D 's un- 

Dpularity with the Littellon family, it does 
3t arise, perhaps, from what you and the 



140 

lie 
world may, with some reason, suppose ; biiy 
from a subsequent circumstance, of which yoL,). 
and the world, are, in general, ignorani,, 

When my — — was governor of J , he re 

ceived positive orders to raise and disciplin 
a regiment of negroes for the service of thi 
Havcinna expedition. As this supply did no^ 
join the grand armament at the time appoint [ 

ed, Mr, D was despatched to Jamaica, b^ 

the commander in chiefj to chide tlie tardj 
levies ; and, as report says, he found a ver] 
sui-prising languor in obeying these very im} 
portant orders of government. On such ai, 
occasion he was, perhaps, instructed t(. 
threaten an accusation of deUnquency agains, 
the governor, to the powers at home ; and i 
is equally probable, that he did not forget hi^ 
instructions. Whether this neglect was rej 
paired by subsequent exertions, or whether i. 
was forgotten in the successes which followed 
I do not know; but I very well remember, 
that at the time, my father was very uneas}| 
about it, and complained in angry terms to the 
clergyman of Hagley, of his brother's forward 
ness to disgrace a branch of that family, bj 
which his own had been so warmly protected^ 
Here the matter rested; but that George 

D should have been elevated to a situation,, 

wherein he could repeat what was called ar 



141 

olent menace to one of the Littelton family, 
1 never be remembered without much mor- 
nation, and, therefore, can never be forgiv- 
■ Adieu. 



LETTER XXXIX. 

lucH of the disputes, and, consequently, 
ly of the inconveniencies, of this world, 
'ic from the strange difficulty (for a strange 
' it is) that men find in understanding each 
'sr's meaning. — Hence the never-ending 
^e of cross-purposes, in which all of us, at 
|is, are so much engaged. A leading cause 
his disunion is a negligence in using terms 
• ropriate to th^ir object. The philosopher, 
'j true, must generalize his ideas, to com- 

the views of his inquiring mind. It is by 
\ an application of his intellectual faculties, 

he surmounts such a variety of obstacles; 

he passes from individual man to a whole 
^' 3le ; from a people, to the human race ; 

I the time in which he lives, to the ages 
{ are to come; from what he sees to that 
', '.h is invisible. But in conveying the fruits 
! I s study and reflection to others, he must 
' iescend to weigh words, compare terms, 
. preclude all possibility of error in those 

istructs, by using a simplicity of defini- 



142 

tlon, a perspicuity of expression, and, whc: 
the barrenness of language denies the imm 
diate term, a neatness of periphrase, whi( 
not only invites but creates conception. 

You are pleased, in your last letter, tochar^ 
the present age with the crime of scepticisi 
and you have abandoned yourself to a mo 
than common energy on the subject. To U 
you the truth, I do not very clearly perceij 
the tendency of your accusation. If it alludi 
to religion, you would, I think, find some d| 
ficulty to maintain your position ; if it shoij 
glance at politics, our national submission) 
certainly against you ; or, leaving the highjj 
concerns of the world, if you should ap 
your assertion to the ordinary intercourse 
common transactions between man and m^ 
you are truly unfortunate, as an extreme cu 
bility seems to be one of the leading featu^ 
of the present times. The age in which 
live does not possess so great a share, as foij 
er centuries, of that faith which is able to 
move mountains ; blind credulity, by the 
suits it so long offered to reason, has, i 
great measure, destroyed itself, or is rati 
become modified into that sopriety of bel 
which is consistent with a rational being. 1\ 
gawdy, awful, and presuming phantom of 
pal authority, has long begun to disappe 



143 

at blazing meteor, which for so many ages 
zzled the superstitious world, verges to- 
irds the horizon, and grows pale before the 
;ady embodied light of liberal unimpeded 
ence. But I cannot believe, although luxu- 
and dissipation, with their concomitant de- 
avlties, have made such enormous strides 
long the higher orders, that infidelity in re- 
ious matters is a leading characteristic of 
? times. If we turn from the church to the 
' te, the firm confidence of a very great ma- 
'lity of the people In a government, which, T 
n forced to confess, does not possess all the 
Idom that such a government ought to pos- 
ijs, is a circumstance, which, were I to en- 
je upon it, you would be perplexed to an- 
lir. In the ordinary transactions of life, the 
jitonness of commercial credit is well pre- 
ed to give the lie direct to any charge of 
'edulity. Ask Foley, Charles Fox, and a 
i(asand others, what they think of modern 
lelity ; and they will tell you, that the Jexi's 
^nselves, that unbelieving race, have de- 
ed from the standard of scepticism, and, 
ng borne the stigma of spiritual unbelief 
ililjipwards of seventeen hundred years, are, 
lis moment, groaning beneath the effects 
^mporal credulity. 

redula turba sumus^We are a credulous 
of beings; and the most steady professors 



144 

of scepticism are deceived by others, and d< 
ceive themselves, every hour of the day. R^ 
llglon, which commands, among its evidei 
truths, the belief of matters which we canni. 
entirely comprehend, will, sometimes, so hi, 
bituate the mind of its submissive disciple t 
acts of faith, that he does not know how 
withhold his assent to the most improbab; 
fictions of human fancy; and the Credo qu 
impossibile est of Tertullian is readily adopt . 
by his yielding piety. I shall confirm the tru': 
of this observation by a story which I ha 
heard related, and is not more extraordina 
in its nature, than the tone, look, and languaj i 
of belief which accompanied the relation.—/ 
traveller, benighted in a wild and mountaino 
country, (if my recollection does not fail w 
in the Highlands of Scotland) at length I 
holds the welcome light of a neighbouring Y 
bitation. He urges his horse towards it ; wht 
instead of a house, he approached a kind 
illuminated chapel, from whence issued t) i 
most alarming sounds he had ever hear 
Though greatly surprised and terrified, 
ventured to look through a window of t I 
building, when he was amazed to see a lar; ! 
assembly of cats, who, arranged in solemn p! 
der, were lamenting over the corpse of one 
their own species, which lay in state, and w ( 
surrounded with the various emblems of t 



145 

vereignty. Alarmed and terrified at this ex- 
traordinary spectacle, he hastened from the 
place with greater eagerness than he approach- 
ed it ; and arriving, some time after, at the 
house of a gentleman who never turned the 
wanderer from his gate, the impressions of 
ivhat he had seen were so visible on his coun- 
lenance, that his friendly host enquired mto 

he cause of his anxiety. He accordingly told 
'lis story, and, having finished it, a large family 
':at, who had lain, during the narrative, before 
die fire, immediately started up, and very ar- 
ticulately exclaimed, " Then I atn king of the 
jcfl*^/" and, having thus announced its new 
I dignity, the animal darted up the chimney, 
and was seen no more. 

) Now, the man who seriously repeated this 
I strange and singular history, was a peer of the 
j"ealm, had been concerned in the active scenes 
pf life, and was held in high esteem and vene- 
I'ation among mankind for his talents, wisdom, 
,ind christian piety. After this information, 
jvhich I give you as a serious fact, what have 
l^ou to say ? — Tt is impossible, but you must 

mmediately withdraw jour charge of infideli- 

y against a period which could produce one 

uch implicit believer. 
As for myself, I will readily confess to you 

hat I am neither a sceptic nor a believer. I 
G 



146 

have enough of scepticism to prevent the| 
throwing my share of faith away,- at the same 
time I feel within me that there is something, 
which I cannot very well explain, the belief 
whereof I ought to cultivate, and from whence 
I should derive much satisfaction and content- 
ment, could 1 but frame my mind to the pur- 
pose. — If, however, after all my reasoning, you 
should still continue to fix a sceptical charac- 
ter upon the present age, I trust that you will, 
at least, discard it from your own breast, while ' 
I assure you of the great regard with which I 
am 

Your most sincere humble servant. 



LETTER XL, 

MTC DEAR SIR, | 

Youu letters to me are those of friendship. 
Under the impression of this sentiment, I, at 
all times, receive them ; nevertheless, they are 
attended with this disagreeable circumstance,, 
that, in my answers to them, I am so ofteiv 
obliged to make myself the hero of my own tale. 

Your last charge has a foundation in truth ; 
and the persons whom you name as being ia 
the circle of my intimacy, are received at my 
house, and admitted to mytable. You tell me 
it is not only a dishonour, but a crime, to herd 



147 

with such men as familiar associates j and that 
it is beneath a rational being to receive these 
outcasts from all other society into mine, mere- 
ly to be flattered by their submission, to have 
base engines of my pleasures or objects for 
that raillery which will not be returned. It is 
too true, that I cannot altogether combat the 
force of these very severe observations ; but 
let me persuade you to bestow any small por- 
tion of your leisure on the volume of human 
nature, to take a short review of human fail- 
ings, and then to cast your eye upon that page 
whereon my name is written. You will there 
discover that my character is divided between 
an ardent desire of applause, and a more than 
equal love of pleasure ; and, on this discovery, 
your considerate regard will look with less 
severity upon me. When you have done me 
this justice, proceed, I beseech you, one step 
farther; examine the world upon my subject, 
and you will know what confirmed prejudices 
it possesses against me ; that I am the continu- 
al victim of its injustice ; and that, not con- 
tented to blazon forth my defects and follies 
into a false unnatural magnitude, it seems 
pleased with the malignant task of fabricating 
tales to my dishonour. Public opinion aims at 
excluding me from a familiar intercourse with 
men of virtuous life, and women of chaste 



148 

manners : so that, when I appear, even in ge» 
nerul societies, mothers seem to be alarmed 
for their daughters, husbands for their wives, 
and fathers for their sons : nay, the very im- 
piires of the town have refused my most ge- 
nerous offers, from an apprehension of my ca- 
pacity for mischief I will freely own that my 
life has been marked with an extravagance of 
dissipation ; but neither the force of my pas- 
sions, &c. nor their success, though, viciously 
speaking, I might be vain of the latter, can 
justify these violent and continual fears of me. 
But let us suppose, for a moment, that this 
most prodigal of all prodigals should meditate 
a reformation, and begin the salutary work 
vi'ith the favourable omen of shutting his doors 
against those vagabonds, to use your own ex- 
pression, whom you accuse him of suffering to 
enter them. If, in the arduous task of win- 
ning the forfeited esteem of mankind, I should 
begin with paying my court to the lights of the 
church, and beg their sanction to my infant 
repentance, those holy men would nut only 
suspect the sincerity of my declarations, but 
do my effrontery the credit to believe, that 
under the semblance of contrition, I was me- 
ditating some unholy impertinence to the sa- 
cred lawn. Permit me to continue the singu- 
lar idea, and suppose me commencing my 
roimd of episcopal visits with one of the first 



149 

CHARACTERS of this age and nation, the present 
Bishop of London. After some hesitation on 
the part of my coachman, you may imagine 
me at his lordship's gate, where it cannot be 
supposed that I should find admittance. — But 
this is not at all. — Mis. Lonxith would, proba- 
bly, throw my visiting card into the fire, and 
forbid the porter to enter my name in his 
book; while the right reverend prelate would 
determine to take the opportunity of some de- 
bate in the House of Lords, wherein I might 
be engaged, to satisfy his pohteness as a gen- 
tleman, by leaving his name at my door, with- 
out any api)rehension of being admitted with- 
in it. — Wliat! would you have me wander a 
solitary being through the world, too bad for 
the good, and too good for the bad? — My 
whole nature shudders at the idea, and I should 
perish in the attempt. I love superiority, flat- 
tery, and ease; and the society which you 
condemn affords the three-fold gratification. 
You will tell me that it consists of dishonoura- 
ble men; in the common sense of the term 
you may be right ; but dulcibus abundant vitils; 
and as bad instruments in the hands of agree- 
able performers, make a pleasant concert, so 
these characters compose an amusing society, 
"With them I am under no restraint; they 
know the history of the day: some of them, 



150 

also, are well accomplished; and while they 
play upon one another, I can play upon them 
all. Besides, coffee may be ordered at what- 
ever hour I please without an opposing look; 
and while I confer honour, I enjoy conveni- 
ence. 

You will, perhaps, be disposed to enquire 
if I think it worthy of me, in the phrase of vul- 
gar tongues, to enjoy the character oi' king of 
the company? — The love of rule, my dear Sir, 
is, more or less, the inmate of every breast; it 
is allied to ail the pre-eminent virtues; and 
the greatest men have owed their greatness 
to it. Ccesar declared that the first office of a 
village was preferable to the second station in 
the Roman world. Whitefield, I believe, would 
not have exchanged his tabernacle for a me- 
tropolitan diocese ; Zinzendorff, amid the sub- 
mission of his Moravian followers, looked 
down with pity on despotic empire ; nor, in 
the government of my Pandetnonium, do I en- 
vy all the didactic honours of your Lyceum. 

It may be an opinion which proceeds from 
a dissolute refinement, but it is mine — that 
pleasure is not pleasure, if difficulties are ne- 
cessary to its enjoyment. I wish, as it were, 
to have it brought home to me, without my 
stirring across the threshold. My taste for gra- 
tification is like their piety who erect chapels 
In their houses ; it makes a domestic priest- 



151 

hood necessary to me; and, while the pevbons 
who compose it are zealous in their functions, 
I shall look no farther. The circumstances of 
my past life have produced the colour of the 
present moment; a future period may receive 
another hue. The events of every passing houi- 

I in characters such as mine, as well as in others 
which are supposed to be much better, must 
furnish the tints. Experience may do some* 
thing in my favour; your friendly oracles may 
do more ; the calls of public duty may have 
their effect. To conclude, tijtie and chance 

' happen unto all tnen: and through their influ. 
ence, the hour may arrive when prelates will 

I eat my soup without fear of contamination, and 
modest women admit me to their society with- 
out apprehending a loss of reputation.— Da 

I not be angry with me, I beseech you; it isiiii- 

I possible to treat the subject otherwise ; and, 
if I might add another petition to the nruiny 
you have already so kindly granted, let me en- 
treat you to give our correspondence a more 
pleasing and profitable subject, that the faiK 
ings of 

Your very sincere 

And obliged, &c. 

j LETTER XU. 

Thk world at large is so disposed to gene- 



152 

rallze, that it is seldom right when it descends 
into the detail of opinion. It has so many eyes 
and objects, that, in the act of particularizing 
Ihe sources of its favour or disapprobation, the 
rectitude or error of its conclusions are both 
the effect of hazard. I, as you too well know, 
have been the subject of its severest censure; 
but, with all my faults, I have much reason to 
complain of its precipitate injustice. 

Among other instances of its premature in- 
disposition towards me, the circumstance to 
which you have alluded with so much humour, 
is in proof of my assertion; and to heighten my 
mortification at that time, my own family join- 
ed the popular cry; so that, in pronouncing all 
possibility of amendment, the devoted prodi- 
gal was driven to a situation which absolutely 
precluded him from it. 

My father, in a long detail of my unworthi- 
ness, which, with his usual tenderness, he dealt 
forth to Harry de Salis, as a climax to the amia- 
ble history, concluded the Ust of my enormi- 
ties with declaring, that I actually intrigued 
with three different women of fashion at one 
and the same time. Without making any com- 
ment on the very creditable account given of 
me, and the favourable picture which his pious 
lordship displayed of our first-rate females, 
permit me to assure you, that neither my 
prowess with the ladies, nor any foolish un. 



153 

worthy deed of mine, occasioned the paternal 
displeasure of that moment. The subject of 
an occasional morning's reading was the true 
but unacknowledged cause of my disgrace. I 
shall do myself the justice of relating the fact 
to you in ail its circumstances. 

You must have heard of the celebrated scep- 
tical writer Claude ^net. His works, and the 
prosecution which they brought upon him, 
have conspired to give his name no small share 
of public notoriety. It will be also necessary 
to inform you, that, after the sacred writings. 

Lord L has directed his partial estimation 

to two popular theological productions. The 
one details, explains, and observes upon, the 
Resurrection of Christ; and the other defends 
the character and conduct of the Apostle Paul. 
The former was written by his dearly beloved 
friend Mr. West; the latter, by himself. The 
infidel Claude Anet, among other matters, 
thought proper to give these two publications 
a particular and separate consideration. He 
had the abominable impudence to declare, 
that they were not only deficient in their prin- 
i ciples, but that they were logically defective 
in the means they took to support them: na)^, 
he undertakes to give them arguments supe- 
rior to any they have used, and then to confute 
them. On this ground he opens his battery, 
G2 



154 

and makes his attack ; nor is he without his 
partizans among men of learning and talents, 
as I have been informed, who do not hesitate 
to assign him the victory. Of this I do not pre- 
tend to determine; I have, in truth, no genius 
for that line of criticism. The mode of pro- 
ceeding, however, must be acknowledged to 
have been accompanied with an air of inso- 
lence and contempt, which might have been 
the cause of mortification to men of a less sen- 
sible fibre than one, at least, of those against 
whom it was directed. It had this effect in the 
extreme ; for the pity of the christian gave way 
to the pride of the author; and the damnable 
sceptic, instead of being the object of fervent 
prayer, that he might be converted from the 
error of his way, was wafted, in a moment, by 
his pious antagonist, to the howhng portion of 
the devil and his angels. 

In an unlucky hour it was discovered, that 
this offensive volume was in my possession, 
and the subject of my occasional meditation ; 
and from hence arose that unexpected burst 
of displeasure that fell with so much weight 
upon me, and which had instant recourse to 
my graceless life, as the pretended reason for 
its justification. I do not know a quality of the 
human mind that is of such an absorbent na- 
ture as vanity; in one disappointed moment it 



155 

will suck up the virtue of years. If Claude Anet 
had levelled his shafts in a different direction, 
or I had increased my caution in tracing their 
course, I might have intrigued with a whole 
seraglio of women of fashion, without drawing 
upon me an atom of that vengeance of which 
I was the victim. I could not tell the true cause, 
as it would have increased, if possible, the irri- 
tation against me, without doing any good; 
and, besides, my authority would have been 
lighter than a feather, in the public opinion, 
when put in competition with the power that 
persecuted me; — for religious opinions apart, 
the whole was an abominable persecution. 

I never felt so sensibly the inconvenience of 

a bad character as at this period. Impudence 

could do but little; hypocrisy, which is so thick 

a garb for half mankind, was not a veil of gauze 

to me ; and as for repentance, that was not in 

I the reach of ordinary credibility. I was really 

\ in the situation of the quaker^s dog, who, being 

I caught in the fact of robbing the pantry, was 

I told, in all the complacency of revenge, by his 

I amiable master, ** I will not beat thee, nor kill 

I thee, for thy thieving ; but I will do worse, for 

I I will give thee a bad name;* and immediately, 

I on driving him from the house, alarmed the 

neighbourhood with the calm assurance that 

he was a mad dog: so that the poor animal was 



156 

pursued with the unreflecting brutality usual 

on sucli occasions, which soon put an end to his 

existence. — You may truly apply this story to 

Your affectionate, &c. 



LETTER XLII. 

You must confess, as I am sure you very well 
know, that one of the great arts, if not the prin- 
cipal one, in acquiring a reputation, as well as 
preserving it, is to know the extent of our ge- 
nius, what objects are most suitable to it, in 
what track its propensities should be conduct- 
ed, and what point to place the limits beyond 
which it must venture with caution, as well as 
the ne plus ultra, whose barriers it must not 
venture to pass. The man who possesses this 
knowledge, and acts according to the dictates ^ 
of it will not fail to make a respectable figure 
in any station, and with any talents; but in a 
high station, and great talents, he may be se- 
cure of familiarizing his name with future ages. 

Ambition, an ardent and specious child of 
self-love, continually urges men to pursue ob- 
jects beyond their reach. Avarice, an horrid 
unnatural cub of the same origin, and a dis- 
grace to it, takes a track which reason disdains, 
and honour must condemn, to satisfy its de- 
sires. Envy delights itself in obstructing the 



157 

prosperous career of others ; and folly, dream- 
ing of what it cannot possess, will aim at the 
wreath of wisdom. In short, an ignorance of 
ourselves, from whatever cause it may pro- 
ceed, whether from passion or want of reflec- 
!tion, is the origin of all our mistakes in pri- 
vate as well as public life. In the former, the 
mischief may be of the narrow extent ; but, in 
the latter, the evil may affect, not only the 
people, but every quarter of the globe. The 
grand source of that glory which shone, and 
will continue to shine, with resplendent lustre 
I on Mr. Pitt''s administration of this country, 
j till the annals of it are no more, was a right 
I application of means to ends, and, among 
others, of employing men according to the na- 
ture and tendency of their characters and ta- 
lents. You must perceive the drift of my ar- 
gument; that it leads to the defence of my 
public political conduct, since I have succeed- 
ed to my office in the constitution. — You tell 
me of application to business, and of throwing 
aside a golden sinecure as disgraceful to a real 
patriot. You counsel me, in the most flatter- 
ing manner, to claim an arduous post of go- 
vernment, and, by a vigilant attention to its 
duties, to make a better return for the emolu- 
ments of office, than half a dozen flowery ora- 
tions in Parliament, during a winter's session, 
which are, in your opinion, sufficiently re- 



158 

warded by the gratifications of my own vanity. 
This, I must acknowledge, is coming at once, 
and without ceremony to the point; but think 
for a moment, and ask yourself, what kind of i 
figure 1 should make at the desk. Can you 
imagine that it is in my nature, and, of course 
in my capacity, to bear the oppression of such 
multifarious and eternal business as must claim 
the attention of an eminent official statesman! 
The admirable structure of the British consti- 
tution, its commerce, its interests, and its al- 
liances, have been the objects of my serious 
enquiry and attentive consideration. 1 take 
continual occasion to watch the changing scene 
of its pohtical movements; 1 form, with much 
thought, my opinions upon them; I deliver 
those opinions, in my senatorial capacity, to 
the world ; not from the suggestions of a giddy 
hour, or from the spur of momentary vanity, 
but from curious research, ardent reflection, 
and deliberate preparation. To this point my 
talents, such as they are, must be directed ; 
and. by having given them in some degree 
their natural direction, I have acquired a po- 
litical reputation which would be lost in con- 
tempt and derision, were they to be employed 
in tlie routine of official employment, and the 
perplexities of ministerial duty. Besides, if 
there be any thing which requires a more than 
vestal's vigilance, it is the guidance of a prin- 



159 

ipal wheel in the machine of our government; 
J nd such a continual attention is foreign to my 
;iature. I might, perhaps, possess it for a cer- 
jain time, and apply it with zeal, may I not 
).dd, with reputation? but my existence would 
|)e insupportable, if the intervals of relaxation 
lid not frequently reheve me, when I might 
'^tire 

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. 
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair. 

i There is a certain degree of phlegm abso- 
.utely necessary to the well-being of society ; 
3Ut I possess not an atom of it. There is also 
an ardour of mind that leads to national as well 
as personal greatness, nor am I without an ac- 
tive flame of it ; but it burns by flashes, and 
possesses me only in common with other con. 
tending passions, which, in their turn, com- 
mand my obedience, and are obeyed. Suffer 
the stream, I beseech you, to flow in tliose 
channels which nature has designed for it ; let 
it pass on, sometimes in foaming eddies, and 
sometimes with a tranquil wave ; be content 
to watch its progress ; and, though it may now 
force its angry passage through the divided 
mountain, your eye may soon behold its crys- 
tal surface reflect the golden harvests and 
flowery meadows. But, should its natural 



160 

course be changed, it would be quickly lost 
in bog and morass ; nor ever grow into that 
extent and grandeur of waters which many, 
rivulets attain before they reach the ocean. 

Is there not, in my own family, an immedi- 
ate circumstance of ridicule which comes in 
aid of my argument ? — My father, who made 
a respectable figure as a senator in both housesi 
of parliament, and possessed that theoretic po- ; 
litical erudition which constituted him an able 
counsellor of the state, was incapable, as you 
very well know, of counting tiventy pounds, if 
thrown in a promiscuous heap, of the different 
British coins ; — nevertheless, he was appoint- 
ed to preside at the exchequer, to contrive 
ways and means, and to run through the com- 
binations of finance, without the knowledge of 
arithmetic which is necessary to an overseer 
of the poor. And what was the consequence? 
The whole nation was upon the titter during 
his short-lived administration ; nor does any 
visitor q{ Hag ley House pass through the room 
which is adorned with the exchequer strong- 
box, but beholds the empty badge and sad 
memorial of his ministerial honours, with a sig- 
nificant look of wonder, or shrug of disappro- 
bation. 

The sage physician endeavours to meliorate, 
but not to change, the constitution of his pa- 



161 

tient, and infuses, by degrees, those whole- 
some aids which may help to lessen its infirmi- 
ties. The same wise conduct should be pur- 
sued in the care of mental heahh ; and to aim 
at turning the natural bent of genius, is an ap. 
plication of moral quackery, which will de- 
stroy all fervour of abiUty, administer an opiate 
to the faculties of mind, bring on apathy and 
torpor, and destroy all intellectual nerve for 
i«ver. 

Adieu, Sec. 

LETTER XLIII. 

I TAKE the opportunity of a sober hour, 
I while every one of the society here, except 
I myself, is happy in the delirium of a fox-chase, 
to tell you where 1 am, what 1 am about, and 
; with whom engaged. The spleen of a gloomy 
! day seized upon my spirits; so I ordered my 
chaise, and sought the enlivening hospitality 
of this mansion. To increase our satisfaction, 
who should arrive an hour after me but your 
clerical friend, whose blunt simplicity and un- 
polished benevolence afforded their usual en- 
tertainment. Parson Adams — for he has no 
' other name within these walls — came on 
Thursday to dinner, and continued with us, in 
' much joy and heart, till Saturday afternoon; 
when, suddenly awaking from a kind of snor- 

! 

1 



162 

jiig dose, he made a most vociferous and Ui. 
expected demand if it was not the last day of 
the week ; and receiving, after some pause of 
astonishment and laughter, an answer in the 
affirmative, he arose in haste, examined his 
pockets with a most anxious vivacity, and then 
broke the cordage of the bell, in the violence 
of ringing it. Being requested to explain the 
meaning of all this agitation, he observed, in a 
tone of voice which betokened no small disap- 
pointment, that as, in truth, it was Saturday, 
the morrow must, in the natural order of time, 
be Sunday ; and as Sunday was the Sabbath- 
day, it was fitting he sliould immediately re- 
turn home, to prepare himself for the duties 
of it. The night approached, and threatened 
darkness ; it was, therefore, proposed to him 
to retake the possession of his arm-chair, nor 
to think of business till the next morning. 
*' My good friends," replied the doctor, " it 
becomes me to inform you, that my habitation 
is fourteen miles distant, and that the church 
where I am to officiate to-morrow morning, is 
exactly in the midway ; so that, if I remain 
here till the time you propose, I must ride 
fouiteen miles to fetch a sermon, return seven 
of the same miles to preach it, and then go 
over these individual seven miles for the third 
time to preach the same sermon again, which 
I take, according to common arithmetic, to be 



163 

1 less than twenty-eight miles ; and all tiiis 
Jding, with double duty will be too much both 
■r man and beast. I really thought," continu- 
1 our divine, " that I had equipped myself 
ith a sermon, in order to make the first 
lurch an half-way house on my return to my 
wn parish ; but I have either forgot to clap 
ly divinity in my pocket, or I took it out ac- 
identally with my tobacco-box in my way, and 
jive unfortunately dropped it in the road." 
[e then emptied all his pockets one by one, 
,ot forgetting the side-pockets of his breeches, 
■jrned them inside out, covered the floor with 
I quantity of dry crumbs of bread and cheese, 
l)oked into his tobacco-box, took his watch 
I'om his fob, poked down two of his fingers, 
ixamined the lining of his coat, and at length, 
'ith a deep sigh, and a huge expectoration 
pon his handkerchief, which he had thrown 
pon the ground, he gave it up for lost. " It 
'as," said he, " the best discourse I had to my 
ack, and as pretty a piece of supernaculum 
s ever was enclosed in black covers. It was 
ivided," continued he, *' into three parts ; the 
rst was taken from Clarke, the second from 
Uernethy, and the third was composed by my- 
elf ; and the two practical observations were 
ranslated from a Latin sermon, preached and 
•rinted at Oxford in the year of our Lord, 
725.'* On my observing that his discourse 



164 

had as many heads as Cerberus, he grew warm>j 
and told me it was much better to have three 
heads than none at all. " But," added thcf 
doctor, " if you wish to know more of the mati 
ter, it had four beginnings, and seven conclu^; 
sions ; by the help whereof I preached it, witlii 
equal success, on a Christmas-day, for the be-j 
nefit of a charity, at a florist's feast, an assize,i 
an arclideacon's visitation, and a funeral, be-i 
sides common occasions." On this account,! 

F observed that it put him in mind of thei 

mention made, in Tristram Shandy, of a text, 
which would suit any sermon, and a sermoni 
which would suit any text. This the zealous 
preacher loudly declared was a false insinua- 
tion ; for that his text was steady to its post, 
nor had ever deserted it ; and that whoever 
took him for a man who would hold out a false 
flag, or change his colours, on any occasion, 
mistook his character, and did him a very sen- 
sible injustice. At this period, the master of 
the house returned from a quiet but fruitless 
examination of his book-case, for the purpose 
of finding, perchance, some old printed ser- 
mon which might have served the doctor's 
purpose, prolonged the pleasure of his society, 
and saved him his dark and dangerous journey. 
On this disappointment, I ventured to remark, 
that, as he had given us so many agreeable 
specimens of his ready eloquence, it was cer* 



165 

linly in his power to treat his flock with an 
xtempore discourse; and I strongly recom- 
lended him to adopt my idea, when he struck 
le dumb, by hinting to me, in a loud signifi- 
int whisper, that I was mistaken in supposing 

to be as easy a business to preach a sensible 
discourse on a divine subject, extempore, in a 
iilpit, as to talk a precipitate hour of flowery, 
■ othy nonsense, on a political one, in the Par- 
iment house. At this moment of superiority 

s horse was announced, and we all attended 

1 hear, rather than to see, him depart, which 

2 did with much horse language, and in a 
ight of triple darkness. 

It was now seven o'clock ; our spirits were 
ed with the parson : we gambled a little, but 
\it with sufl[icient spirit to keep us awake, 
111 at length supper fortunately arrived to 
[lange the scene; and 1 had scarce dissected 
1 16 wing of a capon, when we were all alarmed 
\y a voice from the court, -which repeated the 
'y of "house! house!" with uncommon ve- 
2mence. We left the table and hurried to 
le hall-door, when the same voice demanded, 
; the same tone, whether that was the road 
» Bridgenorth? On a reply in the negative, it 
bntinued, " I suppose, then, I am at Daven- 
trt House" — On a second reply in the nega- 
ve,— "Then where the devil ami?" re- 



166 

turned the voice, for we could see nothing j 
but the candles arriving, who should appear' 
but our unfortunate doctor, who, after wan. 
dering about the commons for upwards oi 
three hours, had, by mere chance, returned to 
us again. We received him in triumph, placed 
him at the head of the table, where, without^ 
grace or apology, or indeed uttering a single 
word, he seized on the best part of a fowl, 
with a proportionable quantity of ham, and 
left us to laugh and be merry, while he vora^ 
ciously devoured his meat, and held his tongue. 
At length, observing that his clay wanted 
moistening, and that punch was a fluid the best 
adapted of any other to his soil, he did not de- 
lay an instant to quench his thirsty frame from 
a large bowl of that refreshing beverage. The 
cords of his tongue were now loosened, and 
he informed us, that providence having, as he 
supposed, for wise and good purposes, inti- 
mated to him, by a variety of obstructions, 
that he should not discharge his usual func- 
tions on the morrow, it became him to show a 
due resignation to the will of Heaven, and, 
therefore, he should send his flocks lo grass 
on the approaching Sabbath. In a similar 
strain he continued to entertain us, till, weari- 
ed with laughter, we were gl.d to retire. The 
next morning it was hinted to him, that the 



167 

; company did not wish to restrain him from at- 
£ tending upon the divine service of the parish; 
ibut he declared that it would be adding con- 
3 tempt to neglect, if, when he had absented 

himself from his own churches, he should go 
jto any other. — This curious etiquette he strict- 
u!y observed, and we passed a Sabbath, contra- 
j ry, I fear, both to law and gospel. 

In the fullness of his heart, our divine has 
I given us an invitation to dine with him at his 
i parsonage on Thursday next. I expect infinite 
. entertainment from the party ; and you may 
I depend, by the succeeding post, to receive 
j the best hash of it which the cookery of my 
I pen can aftbrd you. In the mean time, and at 

all times, I remain 

Yours most affectionately^ 



LETTER XLIV. 

The visit is paid, and more than answered 
the warmest expectations v.hich could be 
formed in its favour. Our reverend host had 
insisted, not a la mode de Scarron, that each of 
his guests should bring his dish, but that they 
should individually name it This easy preli- 
minary was readily complied with, and it was 
my lot to give birth to as excellent a plumb- 



168 

pudding as ever smoked upon a table ; wlucli^ 
from ray adoption, he is resolved, in future, to 
call a Littelton. You see what honours wait 
upon me, and to what sohd excellence my ti- 
tle is assimilated. F had named a goose, 

which he immediately christened after its god- 
father, who did not quite relish the joke, and 
could hardly force a laugh, when the rest of 
the company were bursting. The whole meal 
was a very comfortable one ; and the doctor 
produced ws no small quantity of very tolera- 
ble wine ; his punch was grateful to the nos- 
trils; but he had made it in a large pewter 
vessel, so like a two-handled chamber pot, that 
my resolution was not equal to the applying 
of it to my palate. 

On its being observed that he must have ta- 
ken no small pains to procure all the good 
things before us, he declared that no trouble 
had attended any one article but the pudding, 
which, he said, had almost destroyed a pair of 
black plush breeches in riding round the coun- 
try to learn how it should be made in perfec-* 
tion. •* You cannot be Ignorant, my lord,'* 
continued our divine, addressing himself par- 
ticularly to me, " that a plumb-pudding is no- 
thing more than a pudding, however it may be 
cpmposed, with plumbs added to other ingre- 
dients; but, apprehensive that the ordinary , 



169 

bkill of our homely kitchens, in this particular, 
might not be agreeable to such refined palates 
as yours, I resolved to traverse the whole 
neighbourhood, in order to obtain all necessa-, 
ry intelligence. Every learned person to whom 
I applied, agreed, as your lordship may sup- 
pose, in the essential articles of flour and 
water, milk and eggs, suet and plumbs, or rai- 
sins; but the variety of otlier articles, which 
were severally recommended, filled two pages 
of my memorandum-book, and drove me al- 
most to despair. In the multitude of counsel- 
lors I did not, according to the proverb, find 
wisdom, but contusion. I was successively, 
alternately, and separately, advised the addi- 
tion of rum, brandy, wine, strong beer, spices 
of every sort, chopped liver, and Holland's 
gin. With this loud of multifarious intelli- 
gence, I hastened to the market-town, furnish- 
ed myself with every ingredient my own little 
storehouse did not possess, and returned home 
jaded, fatigued, and my pockets laden with 
the produce of all quarters of the globe. But 
another important labour," added the doctor, 
'* succeeded, in the consultation about the 
choice and due mode of applying the hoard 
of grocery and variety of liquors, which were 
displayed in form on the kitchen dresser; it 
l\vas a solemn business, Jor the lord had com' 
H 



I7(y 

mandedit. Consultation, however, begot dif- 
ference of opinion, and difference of opinion 
brought on dispute ; so that I was at length 
obliged to interpose my authority ; and, to 
shorten the business, I ordered all the various 
articles, consisting of more than a dozen in 
aiumber, to be employed without favour or af- 
fection. The motley mixture was accordingly 
made ; and as every person consulted seemed 
to agree, that the longer it boiled the better 
it would prove, I ordered it to be put into the 
pot at midnight, and sent for a famous nurse 
in the neighbourhood to sit up with it, and, 
with a vestal's vigilance, to keep in the fire 
till the family arose. In this state of concoc- 
tion the pudding remained till after the arrival 
of this good company, who, I hope, will be so 
prejudiced in its favour, from the Herculean 
labour which produced it, as to attack its cir- 
cumference with Herculean appetites." Here 
ended the cuhnary oration, and, as I before 
observed, the subject of it contained unrival- 
led excellence ; and, though we laughed at it 
and over it, we did not fail to cause a very ap- 
parent diminution of its ample dimensions.— 
Thus, my dear friend, we ate and laughed, and 
drank and laughed, till night stole impercep. ■ 
libly upon us ; when our hospitable host in- '' 
formed us, that he had two beds and a cradle j 



in 

in his own house, and that he had prepared 
three others at two neighbouring farmers; so 
that we might be at rest, as to our lodging, 
nor Uke him, encounter the perils of a dark- 
some night. The squires, added he, must ad- 
journ to my neighbours ; my two beds will 
serve the peer and the baronet, and I myself 
will take to the cradle. Now, this cradle, 
which caused us no little mirth, and will, I 
presume, have a similar eflfect upon you, who 
are acquainted with the huge figure which 
was to occupy it — this cradle, I say, is a most 
excellent moveable for a small house. It is 
made of a sufficient size to hold an infant six 
feet in length, can be placed any where, and 
will enable an hospitable spirit to supply a 
friend with a lodging when his beds are en- 
gaged. Ifl had not been fearful of affronting 
our divine, I should have indulged my curious 
fancy by going to roost in it ; but the best bed 
I was prepared for me, and the fine Holland 
sheets, which, probably, had not been taken 
1 out of the sweet-scented press for many a 
i month were spread for my repose ; nor would 
my slumbers have been suspended for a mo- 
1 ment, if the linen had not produced so strong 
I an effluvia of rosemary, that 1 almost fancied 
I myself in a coffin, and wrapped in a vvinding- 
' sheet. But fatigue soon got the better of fan- 



172 

cy ; and I awoke the next morning to life and 
spirits, but not to immortality. 

Before I bid you adieu, permit me to add a 
singular example of complimentary repartee, 
which our friendly host, very unexpectedly, 
addressed to me, previous to our depnrture. 

As I was looking out of the parlour window, 
from whence nothing is to be seen but a black 
dreary heath, he asked me how I liked the 
prospect. I answered, that, from its wild ap- 
pearance, \i Nebuchadnezzar had been doomed 
to pasture in his environs, he must have died 
for hunger. And if that prince, replied the 
doctor, had been sentenced to have passed bis 
savage years in your park at Hagi.y^ he need 
not have regretted the loss of a throne, or 
wished a return to the enjoyment of his hu- 
man functions. — At this period of self-impor- 
tance, which, in the very description, returns 
upon me, you cannot be surprised if I take 
my leave. — Adieu ! 



LETTER XLV. 

MT DEAR , 

It gives me no small satisfaction to be as- 
sured, that my two last letters have afforded 
you the satisfaction It was their office to com- 
mvinicate. The rural divine plays a most ad- 



irs 

mirable part in the jovial interludes of provin- 
cial society. It is a pleasant circumstance to 
meet occasionally with a man, whose humour, 
sense and foible, are so blended, that while 
he.possesses the pleasant mixture of simplici- 
ty and vanity, which bars him from distinguish- 
ing when you laugh with him or at him, you 
may give a loose to the whole of your mirth- 
ful dispositions, without any restraint from the 
fear of giving offence. — Our reverend friend 

told B , that he is in no small disgrace 

with his parishioners for entertaining so great 
a sinner as I am; and that one of them, who 
had seen me at Kidder'miiister, declares 
throughout the neighbourhood that I have a 
dovenfoot. I am not without my expectations 
-that equal vouchers will be produced for my 
tail and horns, and then the devil will be com- 
plete. 

At length, the grave and anxious occupa- 
tions of worldly wisdom succeed to mirth and 
jolUty. The interest of money, and the 
value of lives, together with trusts and securi- 
ties, are the subjects of my present medita- 
tions. To explain myself— I am considering 
a plan for easing my estate of the jointures to 
the two Dowager Lady Litteltons — for they 
are both so in fact — by making a purchase of 
equivalent annuities for their valuable lives. 
Fortune has been kind to me, and I will for 



174. 

oiice, win your applause, by applying her gifts 
to sensible purposes. To use a newspaper 
species of portraiture, wliat think you of the 
picture of a young nobleman offering the fa- 
vours of Fortune on the altar of Wisdom, by 
the present Lord Littelton? Ifthis idea should 
be completed — and, I assure you, the dead co- 
louring is disappearing apace — will you place 
the painting in the cabinet of your mind, in 
the room of the picture which you designed, 
and have so often retouched, of that self-same 
nobleman sacrificing the gifts of nature to fol- 
ly, vice and intemperance. 

I trust and beheve, that a sordid thirst after 
money will never be added to the catalogue 
of my failings. It is true, that the love of play 
proceeds from the desire of gain; and is, there- 
fore, said to be founded on an avaricious prin- 
ciple. If this be fact, avarice is the universal 
passion; for I will venture to affirm, that, more 
or less, we are all gamesters by nature. But 
the desire of winning money for the sake of 
spending it, and increasing the joys of life, is 
one thing ; and the ardour of acquiring it, in 
order to lock it up, and render it useless, is 
another. 

Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell 
From Heav'n : for e'en in Heav'n his looks and 

thoughts 



\75 

Were always downwards bent, admiring more 
The riches of Heav'n's pavement, trodden gold, 
Than aught divine or holy else enjoy'd 

In vision beatific. 

I remain most truly, &c. 

I cannot, at present, give a correct answer to 
your enquiry ; but from the recollection of 
the moment, the only inscriptions written 
or corrected by my father, in the temple of 
Uritish worthies at Stow, are those beneath 
the bustos of Locke, Pope, and Sir John Bar^- 
nard: — but I will take an opportunity of sa- 
tisfying you with a more accurate informa- 
tion. 



LETTER XLVr. 

A- by no means deserves your pity; and 

the conduct which I have of late used, and 
shall continue to use, towards him, arises from 
my perfect knowledge of his character, and 
the remembrance of his former treatment of 
myself I told you long ago, when my bulrush 
hung its head, that, high as this gentleman 
then bore himself, the time would come when 
he would hang his head in his turn, and bend 
his back for me to tread upon— All this and 
more is now come to pas?. 




176 

You express your surprise that he does riot 
discover some degree of resentment on the 
occasion of his last journey to Hagley. The fe- 
ver of that business flushed him with no small 
hope, and the succeeding ague shook him with 
disappointment; but he had the prudence to 
conceal his symptoms, and I left him to cure 
himself. He may bluster in a guard-room with 
jiew commissioned ensigns, and, in the leisure 
of a tilt-yard duty, may weave fanciful wreaths 
of future fame ; nay, he may venture to give 
his name to the world in a newspaper, or the 
title-page of a miserable poem ; but the prow- 
ess of our hero will go no farther. If I were to 
bid him go to the Pomona of Hocknel for a pip- 
pin, he would not hesitate a moment, and 
would burn his fingers, willingly, in roasting 
it ; and, when I had eaten the pulp, he would 
content himself with the core. 

All this my Tittle Greek exactly knows; 
And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. 

If, however, your obstinate humanity should 
look towards such an object, have a little pa- 
tience, and he will give you an opportunity 
for the full exercise of it. — I am in the secret; 
but I shall not gratify his vanity by betraying 
it. After all, I find him convenient, and to my 
purpose. He is ready, submissive, and not 



177 

without amusement. If he were to die, I should 
say with Shakspeare, /com/o^ ha've better spar\l 
a better man. 

At this moment, he is sitting on the other 
side of my table, in the act of making some of 
his own bad poetry worse, in which agreeable 
business I may perhaps be kind enough to 
give him some assistance. You would not, pro- 
bably have suspected him in so close a vicini- 
ty to me ; but it is the fact ; and when I have 
folded up my letter, be shall enclose it in its 
envelopcy and set the seal to this certificate of 
his own good quaUties ; nay, I will make him 
direct it into the bargain. Your pence, it is 
true, will suffer for this whim of mine, but the 
revenue will be a gainer; a circumstance 
which must satisfy you as a patriot, on the tru- 
ly political idea of making foHies productive to 
the state. You may observe, hov/ever, and 
with some reason, that every one should pay 
for his own. To such a remark I have nothing 
to answer, but that I am 

Your sincere and faithful, Stc, 



LETTER XLVII. 

I SHALL expect you with impatience, and anj 
much flattered that you can leave the society 
H2 



178 

of your friend C— for the sake of yielding 
to my solicitations. Is it beyond the reach of 
your influence to persuade him to accompany 
you ? I am apprehensive, that he may have 
some scruples in being a guest of mine ; but, 
if he will accord me that honour, I will assume 
the virtue, though I have it not, and he shall 
find nothing chez tnoi which shall give the 
least offence to tlie tranquil purity of liis cha- 
racter. Perhaps you will be my guarantee 
upon the occasion. We were at Eton together, 
though not in any particular intimacy ; and 
since that time I had once the pleasure of din- 
ing with him. I happened, by chance, to be 
present when he proposed to give an Etonian 
dinner ; his politeness led him to invite me, 
and the party was most pleasant and classical. 
A particular circumstance of it I shall never 
forget. One of the company, who had done 
honour to his table by indulging a very vora- 
cious appetite, when the desert was served ; 
thought proper to recollect the deficiency of 
a dish of fish which had been promised him, 
and, in the true vein of gorged disappoint- 
ment, reproached your friend for his forget- 
fulness. The reply was singular, affecting, 
and to the best of my recollection, as follows: 
. — " When I met you this morning," said Mr. 
C- — , '*I was proceeding to Temple bar for 



179 

the purpose of expending an allotted trifle on 
a turbot ; but, a few minutes after, I received 
an unwilling application from a very distressed 
person, to whom a guinea was far more neces- 
sary than the addition of one particular dish 
to a plentiful dinner would be to you, and you 
very well know the strict regulations of my 
exchequer. It is true," continued he, " that 
you have lost your fish ; but it is equally true, 
that, from tlie same cause, a poor unfortunate 
fellow-creature has lost his despair. Besides 
the relish of the turbot must have long been 
superseded on your palate, and I have added 
a pleasure to my heart which will last forever." 
He expressed himself with much more ease 
and simplicity than I have done ; and I was so 
affected, that, had 1 then enjoyed my present 
affluence, I should have instantly subscribed 
to hospitals, and gone about in search of doing 
good. But, alas! these thoughts, morally- 
speaking, of my better days, have been ren- 
dered fruitless in the succession of evil habits j 
and I know not where I shall find a restora- 
tive, unless the society of your friend should 
renew its former influence over me. 

Another circumstance of a very different 
nature, occurs to me from the recollection of 
that day's pleasure. Poor John Darner was 
one of the company. He has made a strange 



180 

exit in a stranger manner. We were at Eton 
and in Italy together, and at subsequent peri- 
ods, in the habits of friendly connexion. Few 
of those who knew him have been more 
gloomily affected by the melancholy event 
than myself. I have been informed, that the 
king has exerted his royal influence to pre- 
vent the publication of Duvid Hume's posthu- 
onoiis treatise in defence of self-murder. I am 
well convinced that his Majesty has acted with 
his accustomed regard to the welfare of his 
people, in procuring the suppression of a work 
dangerous to society, and in direct opposition 
lo evangelical precept; but, for my own part, 
I cannot conceive that any man, in this period 
of the world, could ever be argued into put- 
ting a willing end to his existence, unless some 
circumstances of ill fortune, some malady of 
the mind, or some torturing disease of the 
body, more than co-operated with the argu- 
ments of the reasoning fatalist. Montesquieu 
does not write like himself upon the subject ; 
and Rousseau, who seems purposely not to an- 
swer his own arguments in favour of suicide, 
defends it with sentiment instead of reason. 
Many examples are given in the works of dif- 
ferent writers, of amazing coolness in the act 
of self-destruction, which represent the stroke 
as having been given in youth, health and pros- 



181 

perlty. I caniiot trust to appearances in these, 
or any similar examples ; nor can I believe that 
the "inens sana in corpore sano, with the com- 
forts of life, ever could submit to an act of such 
dreadful uncertainty. I have, sometimes, ta- 
ken up the argument in favour of self murder, 
by way of supporting an opinion, exercising 
a talent, or convincing a fool; but 1 will honest- 
ly acknowledge, that the weakest of my an- 
tagonists have ever got the better of me on 
this subject, though I might not, perhaps, pub- 
lish my conviction. Virgil's picture of the after- 
misery of those whose hands have given a pre- 
maturity to their end, would stagger the ut- 
most sophistry of erring reason. 

Quam vellent sethere in alto 
Pauperiem pati et duros perferre labores ! 

Despair, as it arises from very different and 
opposite causes, has various and distinct ap- 
pearances. It has its rage, its gloom, and its 
indifference ; and while, under the former its 
operations acquire the name of madness, un- 
der the latter it bears the title of philosophy. 
— Poor John Darner was no philosopher, and 
yet he seems to have taken his leap in the dark 
with the marks both of an epicurean and a 
stoic. He acted his part with coolness, and 
sought his preparation in the mirth of a brothel. 



182 

This is an awful subject ; and, in casting my 
eye over what I have hastily written upo . it, 
I observe some inaccuracies which I should be 
glad to correct. But it is not my office, nor is 
it in my pretensions to instruct you. — When 
you are here, I will amuse you with a pamphlet, 
which, without that particular view, is a com- 
plete physical, or rather anatomical, reply to 
those who defend the right of self-murder. It 
is a treatise on the Ganglions of the JSfervea, by 
a Dr. Johnstone, a physician in my neighbour- 
hood. It is written with the pen of a scholar, 
and possesses throughout a most perspicuous 
ingenuity. This gentleman attended my fa- 
ther in his last illness ; and was not only his 
physician, but his confessor. 

Your letter to me consists of four lines, and 
I have returned as many pages. This kind of 
illegal interest is not after my usual fashion; 
bur your kindness deserves a hundred fold 
from 

Your affectionate, &c. 



LETTER XLVIII. 

You are not the only one of my many criti- 
cising friends, who have expressed their sur- 
prise at my taking so kindly to the Surrj/ DeU, 



183 

and becoming so dead to rural magnificence, 
as to neglect ffaglei/'s gaudy scene and proud 

domain. C H , in one of her visits to 

this place, told me that I looked like a toad in 
a hole. Be that as it may, it is shady, elegant, 
convenient, luxuriant and snug ; a term pecu- 
liar to English comfort, and not translated into 
any other language. Besides, a villa is a ne- 
cessary appendage to that rank whose dignity 
you so often recommend me to maintain ; and 
in what spot could a British peer find a more 
delightful retreat than mine, to solace himself 
in the interval of pubUc duty ? Or where is the 
Mgerian grot, in whose auspicious solitude he 
could better hold his secret counsels with the 
guardian genius of his country? But, badinage 
apart, its vicinity to the metropolis is one of 
its princip^il recommendations; and, to a man 
of my tendencies, a cottage at Pimlico is pre- 
ferable to a palace in the distant counties. 
Here I find no inconvenience in a rainy day ; 
the means of dissipating a gloomy temper are 
within my beckon. If I wish to be alone, I can 
shut my gates and exclude the world; or, if I 
want society, my post-chaise will quickly bear 
me hence, or fetch it here. On the contrary, 
Hagley, which is, certainly, an Elysian scene, 
uniting in itself grandeur, beauty and conveni- 
ence, does not possess any of these advantages; 



184 

and I might die there oi ennui, before any thing 
like the necessary remedy could be found. In 
that spot, all delightful as it is, I cannot enjoy 
the advantage of the society which I prefer;^ 
nor, when I am tired of company, is it possible 
for me to be alone. The neighbourhood is ex- 
tremely populous; manufacturing towns sur- 
round me on all sides ; turnpike roads environ 
me ; and tlie prospect from every window in 
my house glares with such a varity of intrud- 
ing objects, that I have been often thankful to 
the shades of night for giving me to tranquillity 
and to myself. Besides, the parish-church is 
in my park ; and I have, more than once, 
awoke from brilliant dreams, by the cackling 
of gossips in full trot to a christening; nay, I 
have sometimes shuddered to see on my splen- 
did lawns, the dirges due and sad array of the 
rustic funeral.— But this is not all. Coaches 
full of travellers of all denominations, and 
troops of holiday neighbours, are hourly chas- 
ing me from my apartments, or, by strolling 
about the environs, keep me a prisoner in it. 
Tlie lord of the place can never call it his for 
a day during the finer part of the year. Nor 
am I proud, as others have been, of holding 
myself forth to the complimentary envy of 
those who come to visit it. My pride is not of 
that complexion ; and the consciousness of 



185 

possessing the first place of its kind in Europe, 
is a sufficient satisfaction to me, without show- 
ing any preference to it as a rural residence. 
The little spot from whence I have the plea- 
sure to address you, has won my fondest at- 
tachment. H left me this morning. We 

passed the whole of yesterday evening in 
searching into the nature of the soul, and con- 
triving ways and means for the final dissolution 
of the world. We are, neither of us, qualified 
to make any great figure in astronomy or me- 
taphysics ; nevertheless, we became very fa- 
miliar with the heavenly bodies, and discours- 
ed, with a most imposing gravity, on matter 
and spirit. We exercised all our ingenuity to 
find out in what part of the human frame the 
soul had fixed her abode, but were totally un- 
able to make the discovery, till our friend, with 
his usual singularity of thought, determined it 
to be in every part where there is sensation, 
and particularly in those parts where sensation 
is most exquisite. But, as it is much easier to 
pull down systems than to establish them, we 
destroyed the globe, and all that it inherits, 
with surprising expedition. A comet was seiz- 
ed upon by both of us, at the same moment, as 
the engine to be employed in the tremendous 
conflagration. The contest for the originality 
of this idea was carried on, with equal zeal be- 



135 

tw^en us, for some time, which my antagonist 
concluded by introducing another very inter- 
esting subject for enquiry ; whether the grdat i 
day of judgment was to precede, accompany, 
or follow this great event of the world's disso- 
lution? In the course of his harangue, he rose 
to such a fervour of thought, delivered such 
forcible language, and intermingled such strik- 
ing expressions from the Scriptures, that he 
grew pale beneath his own conceptions. The 
alarm was contagious, and made my blood 
curdle in its veins. I verily believe, if a rat- 
tling thunder-storm had immediately followed 
his oration, that our confusion would have beevi 
too serious to have admitted of an acknowl- 
edgment. The two ladies, who composed our 
audience, were thrown into such a terror of 
mind, that I began to apprehend the evening's 
amusement would have concluded, in sending 
two handsome and useful women to the Mag- 
dalen. My house, with all its advantages, is 
not calculated for the actual work of contri- 
tion, though it may prepare the way for it; 
and if such a scene of repentance had really 
happened, it would have constituted an zera 
in my life, sufficient to seduce the attention of 
mankind from all the past singularities of it. 

I remain, 8ic. 



LETTER XLIX. 

MY DEAR , 

I HAVE obeyed your commands, and read, 
with a very continued attention, Des Recher- 
ches sur le Despotisine Oriental. The author is 
a person of considerable erudition, active 
thought, and lively imagination. He steers his 
vessel with no common address on the ocean 
of conjecture, and I have beheld his course 
with much admiration. But though he may 
help to forward an advanced progress in infi- 
delity, I cannot flatter him with the supposi- 
tion that he alone has ever made an infidel. 
The paradox of primitive Theocracies, I be- 
lieve, is not a new one, though he may have 
given it a novelty of examination, and branch- 
ed it forth into a variety of new ramifications. 
A writer, who strikes at the very root of sa- 
cred history, which has been an object of faith 
to so great a part of the more enlightened 
world, for such a course of ages, and possesses 
the support of collateral tradition, as well as a 
supernatural strength of internal evidence—- 
such an author, I say, should produce some- 
thing more than hypothesis, though supported 
by the most colossal strength of human erudi- 
tion ; nay, it may not be the least, among the 
many arguments in favour of the sacred writ- 



1^8 

ings, that nothing but hypothesis can be|| 
brought against them. A faith of some thou- 
sand years is not to be destroyed by the elabo-| 
pate, but artificial conjectures of a modern in-^ 
fidel. I will oppose to your ingenius French- 1 
man the learned Mr. Bryant, of our own coun-| 
try, whose late splenrlid publication is an ho-' 
nour to our age and nation. The Gullic infidell 
must sink into nothing before the veteran abi-| 
lities of our English believer. — These casual I 
thoughts, my dear friend, are my own ; and you I 
may be assured, that I have not stolen them^ 
from any pious page of my father's manuscript | 
lucubrations. I 

But 1 shall quit a subject, which is not in' 
the ordinary line of my enquiries, and whereon' 
I can only hazard a few occasional thoughts, 
from the uninformed reflections of the mo- 
ment, to thank you for the very judicious and 
elegant manuscript which you have entrusted 
to my perusal. It has all my praise. The dia- 
logue is natural ; the language chaste ; the 
charactersfinely discriminated ; the sentiments 
admirably appropriated ; and the moral, if I 
may use the expression, irresistably proposed 
to the business and bosom of the reader. I 
will hope, that you will continue to gild your 
leisure hours with such delightful amusements, 
and that your philanthropic spirit will give 
them to instruct and improve mankind. 



\B9 

What think you of bringing Mrs. Montague 
ind Miss Carter upon your charming theatre ? 
The similarity of those ladies' characters in 
iome points, and their dissimilitude in others, 
►vould be finely portrayed by your pen, and 
night give you an opportunity of determining 
he just merits and standard of a literary fe- 
naie. The one is an highly instructed, accom- 
>lished woman, possessed of great affluence, 
vho indulges herself in a chaste display of 
ashionable as well as literary elegance, makes 
xer drawing-room the Lyceum of the day, 
maintains a luxurious hospitality for the vota- 
ries of that science which she loves and pa- 
ronizes the learning which she has herself 
idorned. The other, in a state of contented 
■nediocrity, is humble as though she knew no- 
.hing, while she is not only the most learned 
►voman of any age, but one of the most learned 
persons of that in which she lives. The pure, 
mblime genius, which never swerves from vir- 
.ue, accompanies her in the paths of rigid dis- 
cretion, and is contented to slumber, while its 
avourite votary is employed in the daily habi- 
ual exercise of domestic duties. This colloquy 
should take place between justice, accompa- 
lied by vanity enforcing reward and merit, 
attended by modesty, who will scarce suffer 
*n acceptance. They must be made to con- 



190 

tend, not for their own, but each other's genius 
and virtue; and the scene may conclude with 
a well decorated notice of that handsome in* 
dependence whicli the former has attached to 
the valuable life of the latter. The whole, in 
your hands, will form a most entertaining, in- 
structive and exemplary picture. — Forgive my 
impertinence, I beseech you ; — but the idea 
came across me, and I could not resist the va- 
nity of offering it to you. 

After all, except in some few instances, I 
am not very partial to literary ladies j they are, 
generally, of an impertinent, encroaching dis- 
position ; and almost always bring to my mind 
the Jemale astronomer, who^ after applying her 
nocturnal telescope for a long series of months, 
and had raised the jealousy, as well as the ex- 
pectations, of the male star-gazers, declared 
her only object was to discover if there were 
mefi in the moon. 

I am, with great regard 

And admiration, 8tc. 



LETTER L. 

MY BEAR LORD, 

I AM not so dull of apprehension as to be de- 
ceived by your elegant irony on the drawings 
of naked figures, which you have accidentally 



191 

seen in their preparation for my cabinet. As 
works of art, they have a claim to real admira- 
tion, as being exquisite copies of nature in her 
most beautiful and interesting appearance. 
This you readily acknowledge ; but seem ra- 
ther to hint at the very great impropriety of 
suffering such representations to be held forth 
to public view. In the application, at least, 
this idea of your lordship's is somewhat erro- 
neous; these designs are destined to be the 
ornaments of my private dressing-room, sane- 
Uim sanctorum, into which they alone are ad- 
Imitted, whose steady virtue, or experience of 
I the world, will enable them to look, without 
.any immoral sensation, on the works of a far 
more lascivious pencil than that which I have 
smployed. 

The arguments which you have directed 

iigainst my drawings, might be turned, with no 

>mall success, against the creative arts of paint- 

ng and sculpture. I really feel a vast weight 

)f matter rushing upon me; but, for your sake, 

1 ' will resist its impulse, and acknowledge with 

I 'ou, that a different species of decoration is 

jnore suitable to common apartments, where 

j promiscuous companies of either sex and every 

jige are received; though a copy of Titian's 

^enus, and the naked boys of DotninichinOf 

jrace your withdrawing-roomj not forgetting 



192 

the sacrifice to Priapus, which is a principal 
ornament of your Ubrary. — You have liad the 
precaution, it is true, to hang a curtain before 
the former, which, I do insist, by tempting 
the guess of curious and sportive fancies, to 
say no worse, is a more actual promoter of 
blushing reflections, than the most open ex- 
posure of those naked charms that are obscur- 
ed by it. — Indeed, my lord, yours is a false de- 
licacy as applied to me, and unjust as proceed- 
ing from one who is himself guilty of similar 
and even worse practices. I really should have 
supposed, that an enthusiasm for the fine arts, 
and the repeated tour of Italy, would have 
taughi you better. The elegantiumformarum \ 
spectator is a character, that 1 should imagiiiej, j 
would ever command your esteem ; nor could | 
it have entered into my belief, that you, who | 
look with such frequent admiration on your i 
fine set of engravings, after, if I mistake not, i 
the Duke (if Malborongh's valuable cabinet of ( 
antique gem>, would have ventured at an^ 
thing like a remonstrance on my far more in- 
animate seraglio. 

The unfledged youth, who begins to feel j 
an unknown something running througli his | 
veins, for a short time might be affected by ,ij 
such unveiled representations ; but to men of 
our age and experience, they would rather 



193 

serve to create iiulilTerence by continually 
presenting to us images of those objects, 
whose novelty is one of the principal causes of 
their influence upon us. Some of the ancient 
nations exhibited the difierent sexes naked to 
each other, in order to smother that inflam- 
matory sensibility of nature, which you sup- 
pose the paintings of naked beauty, continually 
before my eyes, must be capable of continual. 
\y inspiring.-— Upon my word, you give me a 
combusiible temperament which I do not pos- 
sess; and if you judge of me, in this particular, 
jrrom yourself, I give your lordship joy of the 
/ery great advantage you have over me. With- 
)ut entering further into the argument, which, 
f duly pursued, of a moderate letter would 
nake a long treatise, I shall only observe, that 
I he mode of dress now adopted by our wo- 
men of fasliion is more seducing and inflam- 
jnatory, and has a more direct tendency to call 
jorth loose aflf'ections in our sex, than any 
ainted representation of female beautys 
lough finished by the exquisite pencil of Ti- 
an himself Your Lordship's Fehus reposes, 
Uh little interruption, behind her curtain; 
j hile the ladies of the world unfold to every 
ye, that share of Iheir charms which are best 
ilculated to seduce it, and to fill the fancy 
Uh the idea of more winning beauties, whicli 
I 



194 

Ihe mantle of fashion does not, as yet, disdain | 
to cover. ^ 

I called at your door to laugh with you upon 
the subject of your reproof; and, though you 
liad taken your flight to Bath, I was resolved 
that you should not escape me. — Perhaps you 
have not heard of Cos'way^s misfortune. In a 
pitched battle with his Monkey he has been 
completely worsted, and now keeps his bed 
from the wounds he received in the combat. 
\ have, however, the pleasure to tell you, that 
the hand of your little Raphael has escaped' 
tlie fury of his antagonist, and is still reserved 
T() delight every lover of its art; but, as there 
is a grievous laceration in one of his legs, there 
is some reason to fear that the important strut 
may be lost for ever. 

I am, with great regard, &c. 



LETTER LT. 

I TLEAo guilty to a very trifling part of the 
charge which you bring against me; but I pe- 
temptorily deny that the accusing lady is a wo- 
man of virtue. Do you believe that every wife 
who does not advance into the guilt of adulte- 
ry is a virtuous character ? Is it your opinion, 
that every unmarried lady who does not keep 



195 

a handsome footman, or make an occasional 
retreat into the country, to drink asses' milk 
for a dropsy, has a right to boast of chastity ? 
Alas ! Sir, 1 know many of these, and hear daily 
of more, who, though they have not been 
guilty of what is pre-eminently called a crimi- 
nal deviation from the nuptial vow, or virgin 
honour, possess more unchaste minds, than 
many of those forlorn wretches, who gain their 
daily bread by the miserable trade of noctur- 
nal prostitution. 

Your artful, angry, or disappointed relation 
— for I have not yet decided which of these 
epithets is most applicable to her present si- 
tuation — makes out a strange and horrid story 
from the ordinary occurrence of an accidental 
half-hour's tete-a-tete. I found her, par hazard^ 
alone, and in those spirits which seemed to ask 
for that kind of libertine badinage, which in 
her more sober humour would not have been 
exerted. The idle raillery was parried by her 
with much skill and coquetry ; she neither re- 
tired into another room, nor rung for a ser- 
vant to show me the door, or even discovered 
a gleam of disapprobation by a moment's gra- 
vity. On the contrary, she pressed my longer 
Stay, and, at my departvu-e, reproached me for 
the nifrequency of my visits. But, stung with 
the mortification that her upbraidings were 



196 

thrown away, (excuse, I beseech you, the ne» 
cessary vanity ot" my justification) she has 
thought proper to cry aloud against me, to re* 
venge what she might consider as a neglect, 
or perhaps, to make the world believe that 
she was still capable of inspiring such a vio- 
lence of passion, which, in her history, so irre- 
sistibly impelled me to make an adventurous 
attack upon her virtue. It really concerns me, 
that you should be, at once, the engine of her 
malicious rage, and the dupe of your own amia- 
ble credulity. Her threats, though they were 
to take her own shape, would not alarm me; 
but she knows loo much of the wicked world 
to put them in execution— believe me, my 
friend, she will not give her many enemies 
such advantage over her. 

I shall plead guilty, in a more general man- 
ner, to another charge which your accusing 
Spirit has brought against me — that I have a 
decided ill opinion of our cotemporary women 
in high hfe. The corruption of the present 
times is in no degree so strongly marked as 
by the modern profligacy of female manners. 
Examine the catalogue of those ladies, whose 
rank, beauty, accomplishments or fortune, 
give them an influence in the great world, and 
then tell me what you think of the present 
state of superior female character. Is their 



19! 



rank employed to give an example to the in* 
ferior orders? Is their beauty exerted in the 
various services of virtue ? Are their accom- 
plishments exercised in confirming and pro- 
longing the duration of virtuous affection? 
And is their fortune taxed with relief to po- 
verty, encouragement to arts, or protection to 
science, otherwise than in subservience to the 
caprices of fashion? Is a simplicity of charac- 
ter visible in female youth after fourteen years 
of age ? And does not the reign of coquetry 
commence before, and oftentimes long before 
that period ? Trace the course of fvishionable 
education from the cradle to the altar; examine 
with attention the efforts and views of mater- 
nal tenderness in the circle of your own socie- 
ty; and tell me where is that perfection of fe- 
male character to be found — for it might every 
where exist — which can awe the most disso- 
lute into respect and admiration. You must 
very well know that the passion of the most 
impassioned, is very rarely inde.ed so irresisti- 
ble, as to inflame with the design of carrying 
the fortress of chastity by a coup de tnain; and 
when such attempts are made, it is some visible 
breach in the out-works which encourages to 
that fierce mode of conquest. A chaste virtu- 
ous woman is an awful character; something 
supernatural seems to surround and shroud 
her from the profane approaches of seduc- 



tion. — Innocence may be seduced, and igno- 
rance may be deceived ; but chastity, founded 
on the firm basis of pure virtue, holds forth to 
the eye of the most artful, as well as the most 
rampant lust, the repulsive evidence of im- 
pregnable security. 

You must well remember where we dined 
together not many weeks ago ; nor can it have 
been possible for you to forget the friendly 
apprehensions which our hostess expressed, 
lest the House of Commons should detain Mr. 

— — , as she was sure Lady would not be 

in tolerable humour if he vi'as not of the party. 
At length, however, they both came, were 
carefully placed together at table, and seemed 
in perfect contentment. Now, all this pretty 
business was managed in chaste society, and 
in a virtuous house ; nevertheless it appeared 
to me, that the mistress of it, even in the pre- 
sence of her daughters, did little less than 
promote the progress of adultery. This, you 
see, is so common an arrangement, that Mrs. 

, who holds herself forth as a woman of 

renowned discretion, considered it as a matter 
of course. I wonder much that you will sufier 
such rare virtue, as dwells in that most amia- 
ble woman whom you possess, to risk the taint 
of such societies. 

I would forgive the artifice of dress, and the 
little hypocrisies of personal decoration ; they 



199 

originate from a desire to please, and can ne- 
ver produce any fatality of deception: but the 
wearing a mask tipon the mind, and the giving 
a fallacious appearance to character, is a for- 
gery that becomes, oftentimes, more fatal to 
happiness and honour than a crime of the same 
title which never finds mercy. How many wo- 
men are there now flaunting about our world, 
who have made use of the falsest pretences to 
obtain a settlement and a husband; and when 
they have succeeded, not only throw aside the 
painted veil which covered them, but laugh at 
the poor hapless dupe who reproaches their 
duplicity! 

They daub their tempers o'er with washes 
As artificial as their faces. 

and while some of them condescend to appear 
charming, both in mind and person, to all the 
world, poor Benedick, who possesses the envi- 
ed privilege of going behind the curtain, alone 
sees the decomposition of that beauty and vir- 
tue which leaves not a look or a wish to please 
behind them. 

That excellent woman, wliom you hare the 
supreme happiness to call your own, is, as I 
have been told, the only one of her sex who 
deigns to say a word in my favour. The rea- 
son, my dear Sir, is evident; she is the only 
one I know who possesses a .suflicient share of 



2GQ 

real intrinsic virtue, to keep me, in her pre- 
sence, in the most patient and satisfactory de- 
corum. Those charms which, while they al- 
lure, correct, and while they delight, improve, 
are of rare growth ; and it becomes the inter- 
est of a corrupt world to employ itscontagion 
to their destruction. This is a language which 
you might not expect from such an incorrigi- 
ble sinner as I am ; but beheve me, it is that 
of all the tribe, when reason resumes her lucid 
interval; and if the women of coquetry, vani- 
ty, and intrigue, knew how much their most 
devoted, admired, and familiar favourites, at 
times despise and speak of them, they would 
have recourse to the sincerity of virtue, to ob- 
tain honest praise, real admiration, and solid 
pleasure. 

It will afford me no small satisfaction to hear 
that I have laid your spirit of censure, and 
that, on this subject at least, it will haunt me 
BO more ; for, thoagh public severity hardens 
me more and more against public opinion, I 
should ever wish to justify myself to you, when 

I possess any means of justification. You 

will do me the favour to present my very sin- 
cere respects to Mrs. — -, and receive the 

Your faithful, &c. 



201 



LETTER Lir. 



1 WISHED, for many reasons, that you could 
have accompanied me hither ; but another is 
now added to the number, by an unpleasant 
indisposition that has hung upon me for some 
time ; and, though it does not keep me at 
home, it deprives me of any and every enjoy- 
ment when I go abroad. I want you to con- 
sole me, to assist my present tendency to grave 
speculations, and to behold me an example of 
your favourite proposition, that man is a super, 
stitious animal. A being continually agitated 
by hopes and fears, is naturally disposed to 
consider every trivial occurrence as an omen 
of his good or evil fortune. — The hot and cold 
fits of life, from one or other of which we are 
seldom free, keep the mind in that tremulous 
state of suspense which makes reason subser- 
vient to the sickly power of imagination. Com- 
mon superstition is awakened by the eager 
pursuit of the most common objects, and is 
particularly visible in those who attend upon 
the nightly orgies of the god of game ; where 
the force of lucky and unlucky omens, is 
strongly as well as universally impressed. 

Women, and men who resemble wcrmen, 
are supposed from extreme fear of disappoint- 
ment, to be very generally disposed to the ha- 
12 



202 

bit of drawing idle consequences from every 
trivial event. But wherefore do I venture an 
imputation against the weaker sex, or the less 
resokite part of my own, when a moment's re- 
flection convinces me that the strongest mind 
cannot always resist the same influence ; and 
that it is not in the utmost perfection of human 
nature to boast a perfect superiority over it. 
The wide extent of antiquity is full of it; the 
flight of birds, and the entrails of beasts, de- 
termined the fate of kings and the prosperity 
of nations. The vision of the night, and the 
awakening hour, gave a colour of good or evil 
to the succeeding day; and the unwieldy code 
of proverbial wisdom is indebted for its bulk 
to the liberal aid of pregnant superstition : nay, 
were I to explore the modern and more ra- 
tional system of late ages, it would only be 
tracing a more extensive chart of human cre- 
dulity. 

This propensity of the mind, which is trifling 
and transitory in the course of ordinary occur- 
rences, becomes a grievous and oppressive 
weight, when, from the frowns of fortune, or 
the languors of disease, it passes from this 
world to another. When the frame begins to 
discover symptoms of decay, when its pains 
and debility fix the gloomy idea of an eternal 
separation upon a mind unused to similar, or, 



2€)3 

perhaps, any serious contemplations, there 13 
no alternative but stoical apathy, or fanciful 
superstition. I am not disposed to admit the 
possibility of the former, or, at least, it is be- 
yond the reach of my nature to attain it; I must 
therefore, submit to the latter, and endeavour 
to shelter my weakness under that of all man- 
kind in all ages of the vi^orld. 

Will you believe me, when I tell you that in 
a morning's ride, which conducted me by some 
of the tremendous fires employed in the ma- 
nufactories in my neighbourhood, I shuddered 
at the sight of their angry flames, and expres- 
sed my sensations to the young lady I accom- 
panied, in such a manner as to make her cheek 
as pale as my own ? It has been observed by 
some wicked wit, and I believe by Voltaire — 
for the thought is of his cast — that, on the 
morning of the thirtieth of' January, every so- 
vereign in Europe rises with a crick iri his neck. 
Now you may apply this idea, for your amuse- 
ment, to the alarms I have just described. I 
am sinner enough to justify the application, 
and am at present humble enough to acknow- 
ledge the truth of it. The same shrewd ge- 
nius declared, when he was out of humour 
with a certain race of kings, que tons les Bour- 
bons craignent le diable: nevertheless — fori am 
determined to be even with him — if anv ere- 



204 

dit is to be given to general and uniform re- 
port, the lively satirist was himself subject to 
certain fits of despondency, when he suffered 
severely from similar apprehensions. Mors vi* 
stans numina majora fecit. 

Tranquillity, I am told, is absolutely neces- 
sary for the restoration of my body ; but, in 
submitting to the proposed remedy for my 
corporal infirmities, I shall certainly acquire 
all the horrors of intellectual disease, if you do 
not hasten to console me. If you refuse me 
your temporal comforts, I shall be under the 
necessityof applying to the Rev. John Wesley^ 
who, according to the Birmingham paper, is 
preaching about the neighbourhood, to assist 
me with his spiritual elixir. 

was here last week, and happy beyond 

expression in the full enjoyment of rural luxu- 
ry ; but the beautiful scenes w^hich filled his 
mind with such mad and mortifying delight, 
are viewed by my jaundiced eye, with less than 
indifference; — though when he exclaimed, 

Rura mihi, et rigui placeant in valiibus amnes ; 
Fkimina amem sylvasque inglorius ; 

a moment's feeble inspiration enabled me to 
add. 



•O ubi caropi.. 



205 

Sperchiusque, et virginibus bacchata Lacanis 

Taygeta ! 

Adieu, and believe me, &c. 

I have this moment received at letter from 
, vvliich proves him to be the most un- 
grateful villain in existence. This conviction 
has, I believe, forced an unexpected glow 
upon my wan countenance. It may be for 
the best, that my immediate indisposition 
prevents me from honouring the rascal with 
a reproach. 



LETTER LIIL 

JIT DEAIl , 

The letter, which I had the pleasure of re* 
ceiving from you yesterday, afforded me all 
the satisfaction I had so much reason to ex- 
pect from it. But as every good in this world 
must have its alloy, it was accompanied by one 
of those half-dictatorial epistles, which, under 
the colour of friendly concern, and in the garb 
of respectful language, contains no small de- 
gree of concealed impertinence. A certain 
relation of mine never fails to pester me with 
a few of them, whenever I happen to be in his 
debt. I had rather pay him ten per cent, if he 
would spare his counsels, than have the loan 



206 

without interest and encumbered with them. 
But this is not all ; for I am obliged to play the 
hypocrite against the grain, to acknowledge 
his goodness, to promise amendment, andso on. 

The last fam jaunt ended unprofitably ; it 
emptied my purse, led me into difficulties, 
and made me dependent where dependence 
is particularly painful ; to which may be added 
some scurvy treatment, which I do not like to 

think oi', and am sorry has got abroad. 

ought to have cut the bully's throat, without 
hesitation ; but he was a tranquil spectator of 
the business, and had not the gratitude to risk 
his own pitiful life to save my honour. 

When I seriously reflect on the miseries of 
dependence, by whatever name it may be dis- 
tinguished, I cannot but admire the prudence, 
and envy the disposition, of those men who 
preserve themselves above it. I am convinced, 
that no man can be happy or honourable, who 
does not proportionate his expenses to the 
means he possesses; and if the phrase is sig- 
nificant, that describes the man who pays every 
body, as above the loorld, he, who has disabled 
himself from pursuing the same conduct, must 
submit to the abject idea of being beneath it. 
If your creditor is a shoe-maker, and you can- 
not discharge his bill, whatever your rank may 
be, he becomes your superior ; and the mo- 



2or 

ment you put it out of your power to pay a 
servant his wages, he becomes your master, 
and you must not only submit to his imperti- 
nence, but connive at his frauds, in order to 
prevent tliis Uveried creditor from making his 
demands, I tell you honestly, that the galled 
horse winces on the occasion, and that my 
withers are most severely wrung. I feel the 
grief so sensibly, that, if I had an amanuensis 
at hand, I should like to patrol my library, and 
dictate a discourse on worldly prudence. The 
circumspect use of money, arising, not from 
any avaricious principle, but from the wise 
practice of applying means to ends, will keep 
a man in that state of independence which is 
the rock of life. On that foundation he can 
stand firm, return the haughty look, smile at 
the supercilious frown, give truth its due force, 
and scorn the embroidered lie. You have a 
son ; and let me advise you, while the smartings 
of the moment dictate the counsel, to instil 
into his tender mind the lasting impression of 
a liberal prudence, without which virtue is 
continually harrassed by necessity, pleasure 
has but an interrupted enjoyment, and life be- 
comes a chequered scene of agitation and dis- 
tress. 



Quaerenda pecunia primurn; 



Virtus post nunmos. 



208 

But tills by the way, — You inform me that you 
every day expect an increase of your family, 
which I very sincerely hope may prove an ad- 
dition to your happiness. However, I cannot 
but think it a great mistake to make merry 
over a creature who is born to the same mise- 
ries as ourselves, who, the first moment he 
draws the breath of life, is enrolled in the re- 
gister of death, and, from the womb, makes 
swift and direct advances to the grave. I am 
almost a convert to the practice of the Thra- 
cians, who wept beside the cradle, and danced 
around the tomb. These opinions will proba= 
bly preclude any proposals to me of becoming 

a god.father. Mrs. once did me the 

honour to hint something of that nature ; but 
I beg you to tell her, from your own experi- 
ence, that I am too unsanctified a person to 
take upon me the character of a baptismal 
sponsor. You will then be so obliging as to 
add, from me, that 1 shall ever have too sin- 
cere a regard for any child of her's, to procure 
it so ungracious an entrance into the Christian 
church, as I am apprehensive that it would 
find, were I to be the officiating usher on the 
occasion. 

I am, with great regard, kc. 



209 

LETTER LIV. 

I RECEIVE you congratulations with an un- 
affected sensibility; but, as your applause pro- 
ceeds from the partiality of a favourable repre- 
sentation, and not from your own immediate 
experience, I may, without impropriety, or 
any false show of modesty, to which I am not 
very much habituated, observe, that the part 
I took in the debate to which you so kindly 
allude, would not have been so favourably 
mentioned, if you had been one of its crowded 
audience. 

1 will tell you, with great truth, that it was 
an important object with me to exert the full 
force of my mind and talents on the business 
of that day. 1 had directed all my thoughts to 
that purpose, and not only exerted a very unu- 
sual industry in acquiring the knowledge ne- 
cessary to give my opinions their due weight, 
but had laboured the dress in which they were 
to be clothed, and attentively composed the 
decorations which were to give the final em- 
bellishment. In short, I omitted no mode of 
study, reflection, or exercise, which might 
enable me to force conviction, and ravish ap- 
plause. But I succeeded in neither ; and, af- 
ter a speech of some length, I sat down, op- 
pressed with disappointment and mortification, 
Several circumstances unexpected in them- 



210 

selves, and untoward in their nature, co-opc 
rated to the fall of my pride on that day. In 
the morning, while I was rehearsing my part 
to A , by some mistake H was admit- 
ted to me, and not only interrupted my lesson, 
but, by the ready communication of his eccen- 
tric flights upon the same subject, threw my 
well-marshalled band of ideas into irretrieva- 
ble confusion. But this was not all ; he desired 
to accompany me to the house, and, in our 
way thither, he seized upon the bugle orna- 
ments of my clothes, as a subject for still more 
discomfiting singularities of thought; so that 
I was most heartily glad when my coach broke 
down in Parliament street, and produced a 
separation. The worst, however, remains be- 
hind. It was my purpose to follow the Earl 
of Shelbunie,' and in consequence of such a 
plan, I had necessarily pre-supposed the line 
of debate he would take, with the general 
turn of argument he might adopt, and had pre- 
pared myself accordingly. But all my conjec- 
tures proved erroneous ; for that noble lord 
took a course so different from my pre-sup- 
positions, and displayed a degree of political 
erudition so far beyond me, that, when I arose, 
tlie confusion between my prepared thoughts, 
and those which were suggested by the able 
discourse of the foregoing speaker, was so 
great, that, although I was not thrown into he- 



211 

sitation, I got so wide of the point before me, 
as to be called to order with great vehemence 
and some propriety from the opposite side of 
the house. This proved conjusion 'voorse con- 
founded ; and though I proceeded with some 
degree of spirit and recovery, I sat down, at 
length, with much self-dissatisfaction ; nor had 
I reason to think, from the succeeding part of 
the debate, that I had made any impression on 
those within the bar, whatever I might have 
done among the tribe of curious listeners with- 
out it. 

This is the true, unvarnished state of the 
case ; and, from the circumstances of it, 1 have 
formed a resolution, which, I trust, you will 
approve — to make no more such studied pre- 
paration. I will give the announced subjects 
all the consideration they deserve, acquire ali 
the knowledge of them in my power, form my 
general principles, and leave their particular 
arrangement, with the necessary shape; dress 
and delivery, to the circumstances and impres- 
sions of the moment— When a senator is to 
take the lead in a debate, in order to introduce 
a projected motion of his own, or is engaged 
to second that of another, he may enter upon 
his task with the most minute verbal prepara- 
tion ; but, when he is to take his casual turn, 
he must trust to his feelings of the moment, 



212 

operating upon the knowledge of the moment. 
If a man, with the common gifts of speech, 
possesses a good store of the latter, he may be 
soon habituated to yield himself to the former, 
with a certain assurance of acquiring an im- 
portant political reputation. 

In American affairs 1 have ever possessed a 
perfect uniformity of opinion. My doctrine 
has ever been, that legislation involves in it 
every possible power and exercise of civil go- 
vernment. For this principle I shall never 
eease to contend ; though I am forced unwil- 
lingly to acknowledge, that the ministerial 
means of supporting it have, at times, been 
very erroneous. But you may be assured, that, 
if some better plans for reinstating Great Bri- 
tain in the full dominion of her revolted colo- 
nies be not pursued (an event which humanity 
at first, succeeded by mis-information and later 
indecision, has so unfortunately delayed, but 
whiclr is still practicable) ministers shall hear 
the deep-tonedenergy of my reproach; I will 
lift up my voice against their timid and inde- 
cisive counsels. My political career, at least, 
shall not be marked with dishonour. 

1 cannot do better, than, with the feelings 
of the present moment, to assure you of my 
most grateful acknowledgments for the regard 
you have shown, on so many occasions, to 

Your most faithful, &c- 



213 

LETTER LV. 

Indeed, ray friend, you are quite wild on the 
subject of eloquence. It may adorn our par- 
liamentary debates, but it will not save our 
country. It is an adventitious qualification that 
will do but little, unless other more substantial 
talents and attainments are in alliance with it. 
An orator, in Cicero's definition of the charac- 
ter, in which, I suppose, he desig-ned to com- 
prehend himself, combines every thing which 
is great in human nature ; but the mere man 
of words, metaphors and impudence, in which, 
you may tell me, I should comprehend myself, 
is nothing more than an useful tool in the hands 
of superior direction. 

You are very sensible, but you mistake my sense. 
I did not declare it to be my opinion that we 
had no orators among us, but that there was 
a melancholy dearth of real statesmen. Per- 
haps, there never was a period, in the annals 
of this or any other country, which has pro- 
duced more able public speakers than that 
wherein we live. The system of attack and 
defence, displayed every session in both houses 
of parliament, produces specimens of oratori- 
cal abilities which would have done honour to 
any lution at any period. Eloquence is a pow- 
erful auxiliary to great political talents ; but it 



214 

is nothing without them — I mean, as to any 
great line of national utility. Mr. Ed^nund 
Burke, who is a prodigy in his kind, will never 
make a leading statesman. 1 do not know, nor 
have I ever heard of any man who could de;- 
liver such a rapid, correct, adorned and highr 
ly-finished oration, as frequently proceeds 
from the instantaneous impulse of this gentle- 
man's illuminated faculties. As a scholar, as a 
man of universal knowledge, as a writer, he is 
the object of my most sincere admiration ; hut, 
in my opinion, he would never figure in office 
beyond the board of trade. Charles lox's abi- 
lities and elocution are of a decided superiori- 
ty; but, out of the senate, their exertions 
would be of dubious expectation. If the for- 
mation of a new ministry were to fall to my lot, 
Charles could not be engaged in a more busy 
part tlun is generally allotted to a vicC'treOr 

surer of Ireland. As for colonel B , nature 

designed him for the service of attack ; he is 
nothing but in the house of commons, nor does 
he figure there but in opposition. To muzzle 
the mastiflr, he must have a place; for, while 
he sat on the treasury-bench, he u^as dujnb, and 
opened not his mouth. Lord Weymouth is not an 
orator; but he delivers his go(;(i sense with a 
veiy becoming dignity. Thf Z>M/f «? of G— — .'s 
speeches are viords, nxsordsj ivords; but are ac- 



215 

companied with an imposing air of conse* 
quence, which tells you, in every look of ges- 
ture and expression, what the speaker thinks 

of himself. Lord C an orator! — Where 

was your reflection fled, or in what quarrel 
had you engaged with reason and judgment, 
when you made such a mistaken declaration ? 
Believe me, my dear friend, he possesses no- 
thing but a little literary, spangled kind of em- 
broidered politics ; pretty, decorative, and in 
fashion ; but without any thing like solidity of 
abilities, or permanency of character, I could 
never view him in any other light, not even 
when he presided at a commission, whose his. 
tory should be blotted from the annals of 
Great Britain. — Our present Palinurus is by no 
means deserving of that contempt, which some 
men, very much his inferiors in every thing, 
think proper to throw upon him ; and the Se- 
cretary for the American department ranks 
high among our modern politicians: — nor must 
Lord Shelburne be forgotten, who possesses, in 
a brilliant degree, the gift of utterance, and is 
ii perfect vade-tnecuni in politics. I bear a wil- 
^ling testimony to Lord Camdai's vigorous un- 
derstanding; and I possess an hereditary ad- 
miration of luord Mansfield'^ very superior ta- 
'lents and character ; but the leading lawyers, 
however able or learned, do not come within 



216 

ihe compass of our present discriminations. 
But all the eloquence on which you build your 
hopes, and all the abilities which our leading 
men possess, if brought into one aggregate 
mass of political talents, would not compose 
that consummate character on whom a nation 
might repose with confidence and security. 
Is there a man among us, who can claim an 
equal share of ministerial reputation with Mr. 
Pelhatn ur Mr George Greiiijille? 

But I must add, for our consolation, that our 
enemies cannot boast of any intellectual supe- 
riority over us ; — their mistakes have kept 
pace with our errors; the catalogue of their 
blunders is not less bulky than our own. Be- 
sides, we still bear ourselves like a great peo- 
ple ; we do not discover any marks of despon- 
dency ; and, I trust, we shall coutinue to sup- 
port our national character, to the confusion 
of our enemies, and the final glory of our 
country. 

I have this day been informed, that Dr. 
PricCf the Dr. Broron of the present day, has 
been formally and solemnly invited by the 
Congress to take upon him the formation and 
superintendency of their exchequer. It woulc^ 
gladden my very soul to hear that he was em- 
barked for America ; though, I fear, he is too 
much of a self-politician to take such a step. 



217 

The lubours of his tlieological accompting 
house would be of no small service to GreaL 
Britain, if Uiey were employed beyond the 
Atlantic This reverend gentleman, in his sad 
vaticinrtlions of British dovvnfal, shelters him- 
self beneath tlie double character of a politi- 
cal prophet and christian divine. If America 
sliould finally become independent, the pro- 
phet will then exult in the accomplishment of 
an event which he has long foretold : if, on the 
contrary, the power of Great Britain over her* 
colonies should be re established, theCalvinis- 
tical cant of the divine must display itself in 
an humble, submissive resignation to the dis. 
pensations of Heaven. 

1 am, with great regard, &c. 



% 



LETTER LVI. 



HY DEAR SIR, 

I ACKNOWLEDGE, With a Very serious con- 
cern, the indecisive and sluggislj spirit of the 
present administration. Tiiis political temper 
our leading statesmen was amiable in its 
yigin, perhaps pardonable in its progress, but 
equally unaccountable and disgraccfiil, to 
«ay no worse, at tliis very importa.it period. 
The humanity of the royal breas:, co-operat' 
K 



18 



ing with the moderate spirit of his iramediale 
councils, and the general disposition of the 
nation, produced those lingering measures in 
*he beginning of the present troubles, which 
encouraged the insolence of democratic ambi- 
tion. If half the regiments, which have hi- 
therto been employed in vain, with a propor- 
tionable fleet, had crossed the Atlantic at the 
early period of American revolt, the mis-sha- 
pen legions of rebellion would have been awed 
into submission, and the numerous loyal inha- 
bitants would have had a strong hold to which 
they might have resorted for protection, in- 
stead of being urged, by the hopes of pre- 
serving their menaced property, to join the 
standard of rebellion, to which, by seduction, 
by habit, or by necessity, many of them vowed, 
and some of them have proved, their fidelity. 
This huV^iane disposition of government to- 
'iVards the chjonies, which has proved a fatal 
error in the politics of our day, naturally led 
to another, which arose from the placing a 
confidence in, and drawing their intelligence 
from men, some of whom, I imagine, were as 
deficient in judgment as the rest were in he- 
nesty — I meiui the American refugees. By 
their suggestions ministers were influenced t) 
continue the inactive line of conduct, till in-, 
dependence was thundered in their ears, anil 



219 

circumstances seemed to announce that alii- 
ance, which has since taken place between th6 
natural enemies of this country and its revolt- 
ed subjects. Permit me to observe, that, in 
the early period of tliis unhappy business, the 
nation at large seemed indisposed to adopt 
the measures of fire and sword. The people, 
very generally, hoped and believed, that the 
alternate anathemas and conciliatory proposi- 
tions of our acts of parliament, would have an- 
swered their beneficial intentions of quieting 
the disorders of ti)e colonies ; and 1 verily be- 
lieve, if, at the period to which I allude, a par- 
liamentary motion had been made to provide 
for the sending a large fleet and army, with 
an active design, to America, that ministerial 
power would h.uve met with a very numerous 
and respectable opposition; nor would the hu- 
manity of the nation at large have been satis- 
fied with a design which portended the 
slaughter of British subjects ; while faciion 
would have lifted up its voice against it, as be- 
ing framed upon the principle of extending, 
with drawn swords, and bayonets fixed, the 
powers of corruption, and the influence of the 
crown. I again repeat,, that at this time, there 
was a very general aversion in the British na- 
tion from entering seriously into the contest; 
for, even after the Americans had published 



220 

their separation from Great Britain, and hos- 
tilities were aciually commenced, the exer- 
tions of British valour were languid ; and the 
rebels, at least on the sea, gained more advan- 
tages than they have since done with the open 
alhance of France, and the secret aid of Spnin. 
When that unnatural union took place, the 
British nation underwent a pretty general and 
very sudden change in sentiments; and many 
of the most rational friends of America could 
no longer consider its inhabitants as fellow- 
subjects, when they humbly implored the 
ready ambition of France to support them in 
their disobedience to their lawful sovereign. 

At this period, 1 must acknowledge that my 
expectations were broad awake to the most 
vigorous exertions of the British government. 
I did not doubt but the genius of my country 
would arise and shake his spear. Alas! — one 
general was appointed upon a principle of re- 
conciliation, and he does not reconcile; — a se- 
cond is named, and accoutred beyond exam- 
ple, for execution, and he executes nothing. 
A third succeeds, and new expectations are 
on the wing. Immense expenses are incurred, 
the national debt enormously increased, and 
no substantial advantages are obtained. At 
length my patience is almost exhausted ; I be- 
gin to view the indecisive spirit of ministry in 



221 

a criminal light ; airl, if some promising symp- 
toms of a cliauge in iheir tueasures do not ap- 
pear at the meeting of parliament, 1 will re- 
peat wiiat i have now written, and much more 
in their very teeth. The place I hold shall 
not bribe me from letting loose the angry spi- 
rit of my reproacii ajjamst tliem. 

But anotlier sct^ne is opening that is preg- 
nant with more alarm, and may bring on a 
contest more trying to this nation than the 
transiitlaniic commoiions and the ambition of 
France. — 1 allude to the growing discontents 
of Ireland. You must too well know that there 
are, at this moment, thirty thousand independ- 
ent men in arms in that kingdom, who have 
erected their own standards, and are prepared 
either to repel a foreign invasion, or to resist 
domestic tyranny. The Irish have long been 
an oppressed people; bui oppression has not 
quenched their spirit, and they have seized on 
the present favomaiile moment to demand 
justice; nay, if ihey were to demand more 
than justice, England is not in a situation to 
refuse it. — Bui of these matters I shall soon be 
better informed; and you may be assured of 
being the first repository of my future and 
more mature opinions. This is rather a dis- 
heartening subject. — It demands my utmost 
resolution to look towards the storm which is 



222 

gathering in the sister kingdom. If, howevc; ^ 
that can be dissipated, and the bond of peace, 
which is ah'eady cracked be restored, my fears 
wil) vanish, and I shall no longer doubt but 
thil Great Britain and Irelajid. in spite of 
American rebellion, of foreign foes, of an in- 
decisive, timid, procrastinating ministry, and 
of a noisy, malicious, hungry faction, will work 
out their own salvation, and close the present 
contest with added glory. 

I am, Sec. 



LETTER LVII. 

I witi, endeavour, to obey your commands, 
and, if possible, to compress my unprepared 
reflections into the compass of this paper. 
The opposition is respectable for rank, proper- 
ly and abilities; but it is feeble and unimpor- 
tant, from the narrowness of its plans, as well 
as the want of a sincere confidence, a firm 
union, and, as I shrewdly suspect, a general 
political integrity in the parties that compose 
it. They all readily accord in opposition to 
the measures of government, but differ, not 
only in the manner, but in the time of exer- 
tion. They all agree to go forth against the 
enemy; but each distinct body follows its own 
leader, and chooses its own mode of attack ; 



223 

they never unite but for the purpose of the 
moment ; by which means, that strong-com- 
pacted, lasting force, which directed to one 
point, and at one instant, would scatter alarm 
through any administration, is frittered down 
into a variety of desultory operations, which 
would disgrace the meanest ministerial appre« 
hension. 

The warmest friend of government cannot 
deny that in the manority there are men of 
sound principle and proved integrity. They 
are, indeed, but few in number, and may be 
easily distinguished from those who are influ- 
enced by the demon of disappointed ambition, 
the fury of desperate faction, and the sugges- 
tions of personal rancour. It has been a mat- 
ter of surprise to many sensible reflecting per- 
sons, tliat the opposition did not use every 
possible means to obtain the aid and counte- 
nance of Lord Chatham's abilities, and con- 
centrate, as it were, their scattered rays in the 
focus of that great man's character. Under 
such a leader they might have acted with ef- 
fect, and knocked so loud at the door of ad- 
ministration, as to have made every member 
of it tremble, even in the most secret and 
guarded recesses of the cabinet. But such a 
coalition was wholly impracticable, even if the 
veteran statesman had been free from those 



224 

bodily infirmities which so seldom permitted 
him of late to step forth to any public exer- 
tion. If we except Lord Camden, there is not 
one of the leading* actors of opposition, who 
has not, at some time or other, calumniated, 
deceived, deserted, or, in some manner, mis- 
treated this great man. Lord S e's orato- 

rialecho made his first entrance into the House 
of Commons notorious, by flying, as it were, 
at his very throat; and yet this man has been 
proud to bear the armorial banner at his fune- 
ral. The first day on which the Earl of Cha- 
tham took his seat in the House of Peers, the 

Duke of R was forced to bow beneath its 

reproof for insulting him. The Duke of G , 

who, to use his own words, had accepted the 
seals merely to trail a pike under the com- 
mand of so distinguished a politician, when ad- 
%'anced to a higher post, turned an angry face 
against the leader whom he had deserted. 

Even the M of R , when at the head 

of his shortlived administration, was vaia 
enough to affect a refusal of Mr. Pitfs assist- 
ance. The conduct of such men, though it 
might be despised, could not be entirely ef- 
faced from his mind by all the submissive ho- 
mage they afterwards paid him ; and though 
he may have since lived with some of them in 
the habits of occasional intercourse, you may 



225 

be assured, if his health had permitted a ro 
entrance into the public service, that he would 
have never engaged in the views of men whom 
he could not trust. The ministry, I believe, 
sent somewhat of an embassy to him, which 

he treated with contempt; and if Lord S e, 

in an occasional visit to Hayes, undertook a si- 
milar business on the part of opposition, I 
doubt not but the answer he received though, 
perhaps, more softened, had its concomitant 
mortification. During the last years of his ve- 
nerable life he seemed to stand alone ; or 
made his communications to no one but Lord 
Cumden, whom 

He faithful found among the faithless. 

Faithful only he.——— — 

The grave is now closed upon that illustri- 
ous statesman, and his splendid orb is set for 
ever. There was that in his character which 
gave him a very distinguished superiority over 
the rest of mankind. He was the greatest war- 
minister this kingdom ever knew ; and the 
four years of his administration form the most 
brilliant period that the British annals, or per- 
haps those of the v/orld can produce. They 
who aim at the diminution of his glory, and 
that of his country, by attributing the rapid 
change of national attairs, under his admini-. 
K2 



226 

tration, to chance, and the fortunate circum- 
stances of the moment, must be slaves to the 
most rooted prejudice, the foulest envy, or the 
darkest ignorance. To the more brilliant part 
of his life, let me add, that he was a minister 
who detested the arts of corruption, set his 
face against all court as well as cabinet in- 
trigues, and quitted his important station with 
unpolluted hands. It is a great national mis- 
fortune, that the mantle of this political pa- 
triarch has not been caught by any of his suc- 
cessors. We are not deficient in men of ge- 
nius, and both Houses of Parliament, give dai- 
ly examples of eloquence, which Home and 
Athens never excelled; nevertheless, there 
does not appear to be a man in the kingdom 
with that power of understanding, depth of 
knowledge, activity of mind, and strength of 
resolution, sufficient to direct our harassed 
empire. There are many among us who are 
capable of being second in command, and 
filling all the subaltern departments with ade- 
quate ability ; but the state as well as the 
army wants a commander-in-chief The trun- 
cheon is become little more than an useless 
trojihy, as a hand fit to grasp it is no longer 
to be found. 

In beiiring my poor testimony to the tnanes 
o? Lord Chatham, I have yielded to the im- 
pulse of my very soul. In this imperfect act 



227 

of veneration I can have no interest, for the 
object of it is gone where the applause of this 
world cannot reach him; and as I ventured to 
differ from him when aUve, and deUvered the 
reasons of my difference to his face, what mo- 
tive can there be for me to flatter him now he 
is no more ? To oppose the sentiments of that 
venerable statesman was an undertaking 
which shook my very frame. My utmost re- 
solution, strengthened by a sense of duty, and 
the laudable ambition of supporting what I 
conceived to be right, against the proudest 
names, could not sustain me. You, 1 believe, 
were present when I sunk down, and became 
silent, beneath the imposing superiority of his 
abilities; but I did not feel it a defeat to be 
vanquished by him; — 



nee tam 



Turpe fuit vinci, quam contendisse decorum 
est. 



LETTER LVIII. 

Your letter arrived, most opportunely, to 
awaken me from the slumbering ennui of a toi- 
lette. I was actually in the power of my valet 
de chambre, when it came to delight, as well 
as instruct me ; and I have proposed a truce 
with powder, pomatum and papillotes, to en- 



228 

courage a thought which instantaneously arose 
from iTiy situation, and may, in its progress, 
produce a suitable answer to your philosophic 
epistle. 

That very important and unexpected effects 
arise from the most trivial causes, is to be dis- 
covered in every page of history, as well as in 
every line of the passing volume of life. Cir- 
cumstances to all appearance the most incon- 
sequential and insignificant, have not only 
dipped thousands of pens in the bitter ink of 
controversy, produced infinite envy, heart- 
burning and calumny, but have also turned the 
plough-share and the pruning-hooklnto wea- 
pons of bloodshed and destruction. 

Turning away with alarm, from the subject 
at lart^c, which would be little less than the 
history of the world, permit me to call your 
attention to tiie virulent animosities which 
have been created, among a large and power- 
ful part of mankind, in different ages, by the 
modes of dressing the hair, wearing beards 
and weaving periwigs. It is a dressing-room 
subject, and, being arrayed in all the sattin- 
dignity of a robe de chatnbre, I feel myself in- 
spired to pursue it. 

It is not with any view to instruct you, that 
I mention the great veneration which in form- 
er times has been paid to the hair, but to give 
somewhat of order and arrangement to the 



229 

weighty matter under my iiiimediaie consider 
tion. That the tresses of pious virgins were 
thouglit an acceptable offering to their tute- 
lary goddess, is well known by every classical 
Student; nor is it less an ol>ject of conimon 
literary knowledge, that among the Greeks 
and Romans, the first fruits of the human tem» 
pies, as well as of the chin, were claimed, with 
great ceremony, by the altars of Bacchus, 
Neptune, and other presiding divinities. In 
later times, but in the early part of our sera, 
(you perceive I write as a Christian) an oath 
was supposed to demand instant conviction, 
when a man swore by his hair; and the act of 
salutation was never so graceful or acceptable;, 
as when it was accompanied by the plucking 
an hair from the head, and presenting it to the 
person who was the object of respectful at- 
tention. The offering the hair to be cut, was 
an acknowledgement of sovereignty, and an 
acceptance of the off"er was considered as an 
assurance of adoption. The cerf, or bonds- 
man, was distinguished by the shortness of his 
hair ; and the insolvent debtor, on resigning 
himself to the future service of his creditor, 
presented the potent scissars, whose instant 
sharpness was applied to his flowing locks, 
the marks of that freedom he no longer pos- 
sessed. 
Long hair being at this period the distin- 



230 

gulshing proof of a gentleman, and, of course, 
an object of great care and attention, became 
a subject for pulpit-sarcasm; and religious ora- 
tory did not fail to make the churches echo 
with the crime of toilette assiduity. At length, 
however, some of the younger clergy, sighing 
after the appearance of fashionable life, ven- 
tured upon the reigning mode, and gave a 
new ton to clerical Coeffiire, which was soon 
adopted by a long train of their complying 
brethren. This schism in dress caused the 
ecclesiastics to turn the tide of invective from 
the lay-work! to each other, and produced a 
division in the church, which drew forth, 
through no small period, the retaliating me- 
naces of damnation from the longhaired and 
short haired clergy. SatJit Paul, it seems, who 
by the perversions of his successors, has been 
the innocent cause of much uneasiness in the 
world, was held forth as having, by apostolic 
authority, forbidden his own sex to suffer theii* 
hair to fall below the shoulder, and granted 
the luxuriant tresses to flow only as a cover- 
ing for female charms. There seems to be 
some taste as well as wantonness in the regu- 
lation ; but, as I do not possess, among my 
many hereditary talents, the qualification to 
become a commentator on the sacred writ- 
ings, or the champion of an injured apostle, I 
shall take leave of the subject, and proceed 



251 

to another stumbling-block of offence, and an- 
gry source of controversy, which the human 
chin has so amply afforded. 

The respect which has been shown to the 
beard'xn all parts of the civilized, and in some 
parts of the uncivilized world, is well known 
to the slightest erudition; nay, a certain pre- 
judice in its favour still exists, even in the 
countries where the razor has long been om- 
nipotent. This impression seems to arise 
very naturally from the habit of associating 
with it those ideas of experience and wisdom, 
of which it is the emblem. It cannot wait upon 
the follies of youth ; its bushy and descending 
lionours are not known to grace the counte- 
nance of early life : and though it may be said, 
in some degree, to grow with our growth, and 
strengthen with our strength, it continues to 
flourish in our decline, and attains its most 
honourable form and beauty wdien the knees 
tremble, the voice grows shrill, and the pate 
is bare. 

When the bold and almost blasphemous 
pencil of the enthusiastic painter has aimed at 
representing the Creator of the world upon 
the canvas, a flowing beard has ever been one 
of the characteristic and essential marks of the 
Supreme Divinity. The pagan Jupiter and the 
graver inhabitants of Olympus would not be 
known without this majestic ornament. Phi- 



232 

losophy, till Our smock-faced days, has consi- 
dered it as the appropriate symbol of its pro- 
fession. Judaic aupei'f^Ut'ionf Egyptian wisdom, 
^Ittic elegance, and Roman virtue, have been 
its fond protectors. To make it an object ef 
dissension, and alternately to consider it as a 
sign of orthodoxy or the standard of heresy, 
was reserved for the fantastical zeal of the 
Christian church. 

In more modern times, not only provincial 
and national, but general councils have been 
convened, synods have been summoned, ec- 
clesiastical congregations and cloistered chap- 
ters of every denomination have been assem- 
bled, to consider, at different periods, the 
character of this venerable growth of the hu- 
man visage. Infinite disputes have been, of 
course, engendert-d, sometimes with respect 
to its form, at other times in regard to its ex- 
istence. Kehgion interested itself, in one age, 
in contendiwg for that pointed form to which 
nature conducts it; at a succeechng period, 
anathemas have been denounced against those 
who refused to give it a rounder shape ; and 
to these, other denunciations have followed, 
which changed it to the square or the scollop. 
— But, while religious caprice (for religion, 
sorry am I to say is, seems to be troubled with 
caprices) quarrelled about form and shape, 
the disputes were confined within the pale of 



233 

the western church ; but, when the beard 
lessened into whiskers, and the scythe of ec- 
clesiastical discipline threatened to mow down 
every hair from off the face, the east soumled 
the alarm, and the churches of Mia and Jfri- 
ca took up the cause, and supported, with all 
the violence of argument and remonstrance, 
those honours of the chin that they still pre- 
serve, and to which the existing inhabitants 
of those climates offer up a perpetual incense. 
In the history of the Gallic church (for, by 
some unaccountable accident, I have some- 
times stumbled upon a page of ecclesiastical 
story) the scenes of religious comedy still live 
in description. — For example — a bearded bi- 
shop appears at the door of a cathedral in all 
the pomp of prelacy, and demands installation 
to the diocese to which he is appointed. He 
is there met by a troop of beardless canons, 
and refused admittance, unless he will employ 
the golden scissars they present to him, to 
cut that flowing ornament from his face, 
which they would think disgrace to their own, 
as well as to the religion they profess. This 
same history, also, is not barren of examples, 
where the sturdy prelate has turned indignant 
from the disgraceful proposal, and sought the 
enforcing aid of sovereign power, which has 
not always been able, witiiout much difficulty, 
to compel the reluctant chapter to acknow- 



234 

ledge a bearded diocesan. Olliers, unwilling 
to risk or delay the power and wealth of an 
episcopal throne for the sake of a cumbrous 
bush of hair, have, by the ready sacrifice of 
their beards, been installed amid acclamations 
and hosannas, as disgraceful as they were un- 
deserved. It may appear still more ridiculous, 
but it is not less true, that some of these bi- 
shops have compounded the matter with their 
refractory clergy, in giving up tlie greater 
part of the beard, but retaining the growth 
of the upper lip in the form of whiskers. The 
idea of a bishop en 'inoustaches must trouble 
the spirit of a modern Christian; but such 
there have been, who, in the act of sacrificing 
to the God of Peace, have exhibited the fierce, 
terrific aspect of a German pioneer. 

At length, the persecuted beard, which has 
been the object of such faithful veneration, 
finds in our quarter of the globe, if we except 
the corner of European Turkey, its only asy- 
lum in the capuchin cloister; unless we add 
the casual protection which is given to it by 
the fanatical Jew, or mendicant hermit. 

The ixig, pentie, or perm ig^ with the cleri- 
cal tonsure, have been the cause of as much 
ecclesiastical contention, as the Arian and 
Alhanasian schisms. The last century expe- 
rienced all its fury, which would not have gi- 
ven way to less important events, than the 



235 

edict of JS/hntes, and the questions of Jansenius. 
The former turned bigotry to a more engag. 
ing object, and lost common sense in astonish- 
ment; while the latter opened a new vent in 
the combustions volcano of religious discord. 

The first wig which is mentioned in history 
was the hairy skin of a goat, which the daugh- 
ter of Saul is related to have employed to 
save the life of lier husband. In a succeeding 
age, Xenophon makes mention of the periwig 
of Astyages, the grandfather of Cyrus : and de- 
scribes the astonishment which seized the 
royal boy on beholding his ancestor so majes- 
tically covered. Suidas and Tacitus both bear 
testimony that Hannibal of Carthage wore a 
peruke, and that his wardrobe was furnished 
with a very large assortment of wigs of all 
kinds, fashions and colours, not only for the 
purpose of magnificence, but also from the 
policy which frequently obliged him to change 
his appearance. 

The Romans, and, in particular, the fashion- 
able ladies of Rome, had great recourse to 
false hair. That of a white colour was the ton 
in Ovid's days; and it was imported from Ger- 
ojiany, where it was common. 

Nunc tibi captives mittet Germania crines; 
Culta triumphatse munere gentis eris. 

This courtly gallant poet is very severe 



236 

upon the custom ; Martial has made it the sub- 
ject of several epigrams; -And Juvenal charges 
Messalina with wearing the adscititious orna- 
mejii ot her head to obtain conceahnent in the 
pursuit of her debaucheries. The ladies of the 
present day may, therefore, shelter them- 
selves behind the greater extravagance of the 
female Romans. — I'he latter imported their 
borrowed locks from a foreign country, while 
the former are contented with the spoils of 
death in their own, and do not shudder at 
mingling with their own tresses, such as are 
furnished by the fatal hand of disease in hos- 
pitals and infirm ries. 

Louis the Thirteenth of Prance, having lost 
his huir, was obliged to ask, or, as he was king, 
I should rather say command, the comfortable 
aid of a periwig; and the necessity of the so- 
vereign cut off' all the hair of his fashionable 
subjects. — Louis the Fourteenth annexed great 
dignity to his peruke, which he increased to 
an enormous size, and made a lion's mane the 
object of its similitude. That monarch, who 
daily studied the part of a king, was never 
seen with his head uncovered but by the bar- 
ber who shaved him. It was not his practice 
to exchange his wig for a night-cap till he was 
enclosed by his curtains, when a page receiv- 
ed the former from his hand, and delivered it 
to him in the morning before he undrew them. 



23f 

The figure of the great Bourbonmusi, at timei&> 
have been truly ridiculous But of ridicu- 
lous figures — had I lived in the reign of good 
queen Anne, my thread paper form and baby 
face must liave been adorned with a full-bot- 
tomed periwig, as large us ihat which bedecks 
the head and shoulders of Mr. Justice Black- 
stone, when he scowls at the unhappy culprit 
who is arraigned before him. 

It is, I believe, very generally known, that 
there is no small number of the clergy who 
love a little of the ton, as well as the ungodly 
laymen; the question, therefore, of wearing 
wigs, with the form of ecclesiastical tonsure, 
became a matter of bitter controversy ; and 
the first petit 7n.aitve of a clergyman, who was 
bold enougli to appe:u' in a wig, was called le 
patriarche des ecclesiastiques emperruques. At 
this time was puhlished, the famous book in 
favour oY periwigs, with the admirable title of 
Absalom, whose melancholy fate was caused 
by his hair; and I remember, in the humour- 
ous exhibition of sign painters, with which I 
think Bound Thornton amused the town some 
years ago, that he adopted this idea, in a re- 
presentation of the Jewish prince suspended 
in mid air, as related in holy writ, which was 
entitled a Sign for Peruke-makers. Tom War- 
ton of Oxford, wrote a little Latin jeu d^esprit 
«n the subject of wigs, with their applications 



338 



and effects, of which it concerns me to remem- 
ber no more than that it possessed his usual 
latinity and classical humour. Ifogarth, also, 
employed his pencil to ridicule the full-bot- 
toms, especially the Mdennanic ones, of the 
last coronation, with his accustomed success. 
But of the histories that relate to this subject, 
the most extraordinary, and which will be 
hardly credited by posterity, is the petition 
delivered by the peruke-makers of London X.6 
liis present majesty, praying him, for the be- 
nefit of their trade, to resume the wig he had 
been pleased to lay aside; and, whav adds to 
the ridicule as well as the impudence of the 
measure, I have been informed, by a spectator 
of their procession, that a considerable num- 
ber of them actually wore their hair, though 
they openly avowed the sacrilegious wish to 
pluck that ornament from the pate of sove- 
reignty. 

In the Augustan age of the Roman empire, 
the wit and the satirist have emi)loyed their 
different weapons against the prevailing at- 
tentions to tiie decorations of the hair; and 
Seneca, in one of his epistles, writes, with so- 
lemn indignation, against the Roman toilettes, 
which he describes in the precise form and 
process of our own. Some of the fathers were 
equally severe against the female coquetres of 
their time ; as their denunciations seem to be 



239 

more particularly levelled at tlie fairer part of 
Ihe creation. One of them, in particular, de- 
clares, that they who employ their h.ours in 
arranging their hair, instead of performing the 
daty of Christians, sacrifice to Cotys, who is 
the goddess of impurity, and to l^riapus, who 
is the god of it. If this be true, what a more 
than pagan age is renewed among us ! 

But, to conclude my unsuspected learning 
on this subject, I must add the curious re- 
proach of Tertullian ugainst the high head-dres- 
1 ses, as well as the practice of dyeing the haify 
so prevalent in his day. He concludes his 
earnest address on this subject, to the ladies, 
j by impressing on their attention the sacred 
I text, that we cannot make an hair tohite or 
! blacky or cause the least addition to our stature; 
I and reproaches them on employing the above- 
I mentioned arts of the toilette to effect both 
these purposes, and thereby giving an express 
lie to the divine declaration of the gosj)el. 
I Petit maitreisin (excHse a new-fangled 
worn) has existed at all periods, in all coun- 
I U'ies, and in every situation. Private peace 
I has been disturbed by it ; and the spirit of 
Christianity has been lost in its contentions. It 
j found its way into the cloister ; it has accom- 
I panied the hermit in his cell ; and the Hotten- 
'itot does not escape its influence ; nay, the pa- 
riot Eoman and the hardy Goth have conde- 



240 

scencied to become coxcombs; Theodoric, 
well known Gothic prince, is related to hav* 
had an officer, who, when the barber had fin- 
ished his beard, was employed to pluck every 
remaining hair from his face which might in- 
terrupt its smoothness, Ccesar used to say, 
that his soldiers fought better wlien they were' 
perfumed ; and according to Plutarch^ Surena, 
general of the Parthians, and the bravest man 
of the nation, painted his face. The f.rench 
do not suffer the most refined effeminacy of 
their toilettes to extinguish their gallant spirit,! 
and, at the command of their sovereign, they 
rush from all the silken softness of luxury, to 
the hardships of camps and the dangers of bat- 
tle. 

Whetheryou will be of opinion with me,;t|iiat 
man is afietitmaitre by nature, or, to express 
myself more philosophically, a coxcomical ani- 
mal, I cannot tell; but 1 have, in the course of 
these reflections, wrought myself so fu'ly into 
the belief of it, that, under the future opera- 
tions of my friseur, I shall look in the glass 
before me, with the complacent patience of a 
man, conscious that he is acting under the 
common impulse which governs all mankind. 

Adieu ' 
THE END. 



^^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




